Sassafrass

Full. And filled.

We are blessed beyond measure. We spent yesterday sitting at my grandmother's dining room table and in the couch that stretches around her living room, talking about the many things we are grateful for this year. Today, I keep thinking how grateful I am this space, where I get to pour out my stories, cry out my worries, try very hard to make you laugh along with me, go on and on and on about pretty things, and share with you the tremendous, tearful, terrifying, trying and very entertaining experience of raising my boy in this city.

When I started Sassafrass, it was meant to be part love letter to my life, part place for me to write without expectations or (sorry about this) too much editing. But, in meeting you here, in making friends out of strangers, in finding writers who awe and inspire me, in receiving more support in single motherhood and beyond and in more ways than I ever could have imagined -- I thank you.

See? So so so blessed.

May the sun you wish to feel on your face shine brightly today.

I'll meet you back here with a fuller Thanksgiving run down after a restful weekend.

Heart in the middle

We got home last night and both of us were exhausted. I'd been running all day -- around the park, with work, trying to fit a week's worth of to-dos into two too-short days. Lil E had been running all day also -- around the playground, on the obstacle course in his classroom, leaping from the car to the front porch to my dad's lap. But there were pies to bake and in a tradition that goes back to when I was a little girl with my grandmother in the kitchen, it was our job.

It is one time of the year that I don't mind cliches, and so I poured a glass of wine, prepped my ingredients, pushed up Lil E's sleeves and set about our labor of love. Lil E and my dad cranked the apple peeler, my mom dug through cabinets for corn syrup and mixing bowls, kept me company and conferred with me on the details of each recipe.

I brought my favorite measuring cups and spoons, but we used tools my mother now keeps that my grandmother once used. The pie pans and pastry mixer and cookie sheets are worn with decades worth of use, and it always makes me feel like I am doing a better job by placing my hands and dough on the same handles and surfaces my mother and grandmother did.

We made apple, a favorite for me and my dad, and pecan for my other grandmother and aunt, and a chocolate truffle experiment at the request of the small child. As much as I love those hours putting pies together, it got late, Lil E got tired, and I felt rushed to get home and finish work left on my laptop screen.

And so the pies were not perfection. Not that they ever are, but they are not as pretty or symmetrical or tidy as I would like them to be. I wanted to linger over the fluting and even out the pecans, but my time and energy was drained. I needed to be done. Just before I slipped them into the oven, I put all those expectations aside and carved a heart into the top crust of the apple pie. Nothing fancy, very uneven. I just felt there needed to be a heart there in the center.

Hours later, Lil E was sound asleep and I was wrapping up work and the movie "The Waitress" came to mind, the one with Keri Russell as the diner server who escapes her small town existence and unhappy marriage by baking pies. It wasn't so much the storyline or many crazy recipes she makes that crept into my thoughts as the song she sings throughout the movie. I needed to find it right then, felt compelled to hear the lyrics to the song that I knew I would recognize when I heard the first few bars.

As soon as I pressed play, I knew I'd found it. It's lovely, simple, perhaps a little too sweet. What got me, though, were the unexpected lines in the middle of the chorus, words I hadn't remembered at all.

Right there, after the familiar

Baby, don't you cry

Gonna make a pie

was nestled

Gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle

and followed by

Baby, don't be blue

Gonna make for you

and once again

Gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle

The poetry of it is not complex and is cliche. It is that time of year, though, where those words are welcome, when the hands working all working all kinds of dishes come into contact are inspired by much more than a recipe or exquisitely peeled apple or the smell of sage, when the only way to set aside the distraction of time and demands and family complications is to just stop for a moment and make a place for the heart.

It's all a big slice of sappiness, I know this. I choose to believe that the song came to me for a reason, as a reminder, as something to sing when I forget how unimportant precise measurements, prettiness and perfection really are.

Listen. Enjoy. Have a blessed Thanksgiving.

Linkety dinkety doo: I used to send crapmail forwards, now I just put it all here

I ran 11 minutes in a row today, lovelies. ELEVEN MINUTES! This is nothing to all of you who are seasoned runners and those of you who don't spend a majority of your life elevated in five-inch heels. But for me, it is big. Eleven minutes is a little bit longer than the block of commercials in between each really important, intellectual, action-charged segment of "The Hills". It's way longer than I can be on a dating site without doing a screen grab of some poor sucker's profile and emailing it with snarky comments to all of my grrrlfriends. Hell, it's even longer than I can stand to sit still on the couch before I grab my laptop. Far more impressive to think of it that way.

While I'm busy sweating and sprawling myself out on my dining room floor  rehydrating and stretching, here are a few bits for you to ponder. As soon as I can speak again, let's discuss thoroughly. We will also discuss how in the name of all things gloriously rack-related, Lynda Carter kept it all in the bustier, even if she only ran a few feet for each take. Until then, this stuff:

• When he turned five, Lil E graduated from the big Duplo block to itty bitty Lego. It's pretty incredible to see what he can already put together. It's also pretty maddening to search the entire interior of the car in the dark to find the tiniest plastic light saber of all time (Lego Anakin needs some serious grip strength rehab). Maybe one day, if the passion and the playing continue (and if a good portion of the pieces steer clear of the seat cushion cracks), my boy will graduate to this level of Lego awesomeness. How cool is that?

• When I saw that Single Mom Survives created videos for Follow Friday on Twitter, I had to check her out. I can barely get a list together of the people who write tweets that make me go from skim to laugh in 140 characters, so I was all kinds of impressed by her. I immediately followed every single person she recommended. How could I not. And then, something magical happened. She featured me in her next round of Follow Friday videos. I was so excited, I messaged her to say she was bringing me to tears. She promptly told me to shut up or she would come steal my shoes and make me cry for real. I am a little in love with her now. Check it out here. I am #FFfamous, y'all! And in fabulous company, too.

• While you're at it, do visit me on Twitter. My tweets are protected (like my heart, my shoes, and the 4,000 random facts about Clone Troopers passed on to me in confidence during the morning commute) but if you ring the bell, I will very likely let you in to the party.

• Speaking of what happens in my car...why, yes, lots and lots of jamming out. As much of a vehicular rock star as I am, there is a reason I will never ever turn a camera on while I am shaking and singing on the stage of my C-RV. And if I ever waiver, I will let this be a reminder of why it's good to just live in the moment rather than archive it online for all time.

Sweetness, cubed

My patience was tested cropping and printing and cutting photos for a class project Lil E brought home last week. The kids had to create a cube, and on each side, place or draw a picture of some aspect of their family life. They are in the middle of a big unit on families, which is important to both Lil E and me, as he learns about all the ways these kids he knows live differently and similarly to our own.

That meant a small project had big meaning. I dug and dig for recent pictures of him with his dad, only coming up with a few that we've already used for other class projects. We narrowed down which parts of our life were important and which he wanted to share on this piece of construction paper folded into too few spaces. He made thoughtful choices and I tried -- hard -- to minimize my irritation with a tempermental printer and ink that smears easily to put together this mosaic with my boy.

The first photo to finally be glued on the cube was in the "favorite family vacation" spot, and shows a very happy and relaxed Lil E and me on the fine, white sand of Anna Maria Island, Florida, with the blue, blue sky and bluer water behind us. We sat silently for a moment, staring at ourselves in that photo.

In the end, it wasn't an easy trip, but it is one we will take again early next year. I felt a wave of comfort wash over me just thinking that, in a few months we will be back there, that we have these plans in place. As a family.

Lil E chose to use a side of his cube to draw a picture of he and his dad swimming in a pool in Portland, alongside the photos from his Star Wars party and steering the boat at the lake and the two of us sitting on the porch of my parents house. It was work getting those individual pictures to fit just right. But after some shifting and editing and trimming and negotiating, it all came together. It looked just like it should.

I loved seeing him turn that cube over and over in his hands on our way to school. Watching from the rear view mirror, it almost looked like a flip book -- Mommy and Lil E, Daddy and Lil E in the pool, Florida, Lake, Star Wars party, holidays.

And yes, while it all and we all do meld in some way, I selfishly love that this is the picture he chose to replicate in a follow-up to the cube class project.

I love the ocean and the half-sun and the grains of sand. I love our hands holding on to one another, his spiky hair, sunglasses and the detailed surf shirt. I even love my googly eyes behind big glasses and the strange appearance of a coconut swimsuit (swimsuit! swimsuit! that's what we're choosing to believe it is). There we are, floating silently and still for a very brief moment, one turn away from everything and everyone else.

Monthly photo shoot (it's no surprise who is directing)

First, let's just be our really happy selves!

 

Now, like we're really surprised to see like the moon or something.

 

OK, now we're like, "WHAT THE --?!"

 

OK! OK! We can do a kissy one. ONE!

 

Now a regular one.

Can you take one of me just being a regular kid?

For the last one, will you take a picture of MY shoes this time?

Lil E explains: [Feel free to insert interpretation here]

In the car, driving home in the dark (thanks, Daylight Saving Time), trying desperately to have our routine "5 things about my day" conversation.

Me: Did you take a nap at school today?

E, shaking his head no: My brain and my body just wouldn't let me.

Me: What centers did you play in?

E: I didn't play at all today.

Me: In preschool? Really?

E: OK, I played, but only a little bit.

Me: Maybe you could tell me one thing -- anything -- then.

E: Mommy! Mommy! Mommy, guess what? One time, when I was leaving a Chicago Fire game with Daddy, we were in the parking lot and I saw an old lady...WITH ORANGE EYES! SHE HAD ORANGE EYES.

Me: Yeah, I'm not buying that one bit.

E: Mommy! She did. For real life.

Me: Well, if you say it was for real life, then...

E: I saw her! I did. She had orange eyes! It totally freaked me out.

Me: It did?

E: Yeah, I was totally cheesed out, man!

Me: Cheesed out...man?

E, breaking in to song:

Ollllllllld lady, old lady

She needs to concentrate

reaaaaaaaaaaaal hard

Old ladies have canes

And they concentrate on things

Frankenstein goes with fruit

Because they both begin with F!

And old, creaaaaaaaky lady

What are you talking about?

It. Is. Windy. And. Darrrrrrrrrrrrrk.

There are goopy, green things

That look like boogers.

The Biiiiiiiiiible tells me so!

As awkward as it is, these moments, the ones when the child loses all grip with reality and the English language and launches into some kind of preschoolian babble song, the only option for sanity that remains is to act like a Very Important Mommy Call has come in on the cell phone and proceed with a pretend but far more coherent conversation with with blissfully silent airwaves.

Eventually, the song will give way to uncontrollable giggles. Then, and only then, is it safe to give your attention by scooping up the cute but clearly crazy kid in the car seat.

Postcards from Halloween: Before and after dark

Halloween went, as these divided holidays often do, just fine. Lil E got to spend a few hours in our neighborhood with four other boys (and two toddler girls -- one as a bug and one as a garden gnome...so funny -- who tried very hard to keep up with the super heroes and Rebel Alliance representatives who sped up and down the steps of each house). After a breather of passing out candy to kids from our own front porch, he took off for the suburbs with his dad for more trick-or-treating. 

The next morning, he happily agreed to send his very-full pumpkin bucket of candy back to his dad's house and turned in a big pile of mini chocolate bars we had here for a Star Wars action figure. Not to worry -- there are plenty of Reese's left in our house, but I am loved that the tricks I touted on channel 5 Saturday morning actually worked once Sunday rolled around.

 

 

I also admit I had a great time sipping my treats on Saturday night with one of my favorite grrrlfriends. Although I haven't been out to a bar or adult party on Halloween in years and years, the scene was pretty much the same -- lots of priest costumes, some puke on the bathroom floor, and the obligatory sexy nurse working her way up and down any Mad Hatter, Michael Jackson, or NASCAR driver who came her way.Oh!  And a very drunk shiny cop. It was good fun.

 My favorite costumes of the night? The dude with the baby from "The Hangover", Billy Ray Cyrus and one of the Texan polygamist's wives. The cult wife costume lady said she just HAD to take a picture with me, which made me think maybe we both were dressed as people being lured to the Dark Side. 

Despite my failed prediction that there would be a lot of Balloon Boys and Kate Gosselins, there was a Mr. Incredible who took a shine to my friend. He's apparently looking for just the right lady to wear the Mrs. Incredible costume he has hanging in his closet at home. No, really. I think he might have to keep looking, but I let him try on my Leia wig anyway.

The final pic: Leia's very practical running shoes and the cowgrrrl's roping boots.

The webs we weave

I've posted about this song on Sassafrass before, but the words just keep rolling around in my head today, especially this verse:

Please, remember me
At Halloween
Making fools of all the neighbors
Our faces painted white
By midnight
We'd forgotten one another
And when the morning came
I was ashamed
Only now it seems so silly
That season left the world
And then returned
And now you're lit up by the city

How many times have you been there -- fully invested and engaged in something silly only to wake up worried that it might not have been so wise after all? I've been there. Hell, I may be there tomorrow morning.

As I sit here in my crazy spider stockings and heels way too high for a Saturday afternoon before I put on the Princess Leia wig and turquoise eyeliner, I am wondering why it is that we both are drawn to and rue the costumery of Halloween so much. I am trying -- trying, trying -- to live more fully in the present, and today I think that could mean a little more self-mockery  and possibly more fun than I have on Halloweens past.

What would you do this All Hallows Eve if you weren't worried that it would seem silly tomorrow?

(Why yes, that is my tool box in the background. Just because a grrrl likes patent leather peep toes, she is not discluded from also loving power tools and levelers.)

Click here to listen to "The Trapeze Swinger" by Iron & Wine in full.

Carved

Let us not delve into the psychological indicators present when a small child creates a story of a family out of a table full of pumpkins and then gleefully demands them to be disemboweled and carved into scary and shocked faces. We will just stick with the happy, safe "being a kid!" theory and enjoy the craftswomanship of these free-handed jack-o-lanterns.

This year's pumpkins are not as fancy as last year's but they were a lot more fun to create. We also got wiser and propped them up on a window sill on the inside so that they simply mock the ravenous squirrels rather than becoming their soggy lunch.

I bought cheesy red, flashing lights to go inside and Lil E was delighted into silence when we went outside and watched them flicker down at us from our second story apartment.

He doesn't think our place is decorated scary enough and for weeks he's been begging me to buy styrofoam tombstones and life-size Frankenstein dolls and inflatable ghosts. That all sifted out when he saw the drawing of the spooky face he wanted, that he thought would scare "even my daddy when he comes to get me," come to life in eerie red light flickering from his white pumpkin.

He asked me to pose with his pumpkin, and to "be really, really scared of it." (Yes, I realize I resemble my pumpkin a little too much.)

Of course, the whole night was capped off with taking a picture of ourselves, silly, slimy and just scary enough for Halloween in our house.

In case you haven't already cooked up and devoured the eleven pumpkin seeds you salvaged from your kids' pumpkins, here's the closest I will ever get to sharing a recipe on this blog: How to make toasted pumpkin seeds in 18 complicated and disgusting steps.

Gearing up

As another holiday approaches, I've felt that familiar feeling crawl up and make me catch my breath. How in the world would I handle Halloween -- Halloween! -- without being with my child? Halloween is all about the child. The very idea of him trick-or-treating without his friends, without me, in some unfamiliar neighborhood was unbearable. For a moment.

As I have learned to do over these few years, I exhaled. It will be OK, I put out to the universe, I promised myself.

Our parenting agreement simply says we will share this day with our son. Over the past few years, this has required very little negotiation since Halloween landed on a day Lil E was at home with me and his dad was working late into the evening. This year, though, it falls right in the middle of a daddy weekend.

And so I slowed my breathing, put on my best calm voice, and called The Ex to explain all the reasons why I thought it we be best for our boy to dress up as Luke Skywalker and join his pack of costumed buddies to trick-or-treat in the neighborhood near his school. I offered to drive to the suburbs to pick Lil E up, I said I wanted to make it work out for all of us.

Surprisingly, he agreed. Although my time with the young Jedi will only come to two hours, it is still two hours of doorbells and candy and that kiddie glee that comes from being hopped up on too many Sweet-Tarts and mini Reese's Cups.

When the vision of tucking an exhausted Luke Skywalker into bed with chocolate still smeared across his face and a light saber still locked tight in his grasp, I calmed the reactionary voice that panicked, "What will I do if he's not here?"

Instead, I considered all of my options to make my own arrangements, put together my own costume (just like I did last year) have my own fun with friends, skipping around in the dark.

I'm not sure what I will do yet, but I feel better knowing there is a plan in place, and that it started -- and will end -- with it all being OK.

If this is how it is, then I will make it work.  And you can count on a fair amount of spandex, cleavage and candy of my own is going to help me out with that.

Will you do some trick-or-treating of your own? What is your plan for Halloween?

Joining in the Single Mom Revolution

I could have spent all day talking to Honoree Corpron Corder on Single Mom Revolution Radio.

I am so amazed that, in just under an hour, we covered so much ground on dating, breaking up and taking good care of yourself when you are a single mama. We never did quite make it to the topic of shoes, but I will assure you that I was doing a little clicky-heel happy dance throughout our conversation.

Not only was it a nice little opportunity to put my land line to use, it was a chance to compare stories about how soon we started dating, what we had to get accountable as relationships ended, and what is really at stake when a single mom has a social life. My favorite few minutes was talking about the necessity of what I call (and I am sure that Honoree  has a much more genteel term for it) the whore period following a divorce or end of a major partnership.

At the end of the show, I said that I would welcome stories, advice, and questions from single parents here. I hope you will take me up on it.

Was breaking up harder for you to do as a single parent than it was before you had kids? What got you through? What words of wisdom to have to offer to other single parents who are dating? Do you agree that some degree of whoriness is a rite of passage when people get divorced or split up from a significant partnership?

If you missed it or if you feel that our voices soothe you into such a tranquil state that you want to listen over and over and over again, simply press play below.

And if you would like to listen to Honoree and Morgan's past shows or be alerted about their upcoming topics and guests, click here.

Just when you thought I couldn't be more chatty

As some weeks go, it has been an on-air one for me. I'm busy talking fall fitness on the radio for my job here -- including one ahh-oooga! ahh-ooga! show with DJs (I kid you not) Wienie and The Butt this morning (oh, the sweet life) -- and am preparing for a few Halloween segments over the next few weeks.

This afternoon, I get to take a break from abs and high-fructose corn syrup rants to talk with the lovely and inspiring Honoree Corpron Corder, author of The Successful Single Mom, and Morgan Day Cecil from ModernMarriedMama. I am thrilled to be a guest on their Blog Talk Radio show, Single Mom Revolution Radio, during the lunch hour today.

We will be talking about the very real heartaches and opportunities of dating and break-ups (and of course, shoes) when you are a single mama. All you have to do is tune in here, dial in  if you have a question or comment, and laugh, nod, or sniffle along with us if you really hear what we're saying. 

If your kids are whining or you can't blast the streaming audio in your cubicle or some phenomenal shoe sale is calling to you, worry not. I promise to post the link to the segment here soon.

In the meantime, fire away the questions you have you'd like to hear us address!

Just a sidebar: My first Blog Talk Radio experience on Single Minded Moms Radio was so positive and empowering and led me to become friends with the very talented Matt Logelin and made me raise my hand in sisterhood with Alaina from Ms. Single Mama and Jessica from OSoloMama. I just chose not to discuss dating at that time. Now, kittens, I can spill all the details freely.

May the Fifth be with you

At the request of the small child celebrated here, would you please press play before continuing on? If you saw the look in his eyes as he tried to figure out each and every scene during this soundtrack, you would already way past the "bummm bum bummm bum bum bum bummmmmm bum" part already.

Click here.

There was really no discussion about what the theme of Lil E's 5th birthday would be. It was assumed -- correctly -- that it would be Star Wars. And when I asked if he'd like to make it a costume party, I don't think he could get a word out. His eyebrows shot up, his eyes went all saucer-y, his mouth dropped, and he capped it all off with a slight nod.

And so it was decided that we would host a Jedi Training Academy at the temple otherwise known as my parents' backyard. Since it has already been a firefighter training academy (shhh, we've got a thing going here), construction site, a bouncy ball dance hall, and unintentional swamp (which made for one soaking we, frostinged first birthday party), we knew that it would take little more than a raise of the hand and stare indicative of real Force concentration by a mommy and grandparents to make the transformation.

[Many soul-stirring geeked out, funny photos to follow after the jump.]

Almost

My son is with his father this weekend.  After three weekends with me, I thought that we both would welcome the time. Instead, I felt the same pangs as I did in the early days of sending him off for visitation, the same pangs I feel when he leaves for vacation.

Tomorrow, my boy turns five. And I will not be there to snuggle him and cover him in kisses in the first few minutes of his birthday.

I will see him, yes. We will have the afternoon and evening together to celebrate and it will be wonderful. But it was hard to send him off as a four-year old knowing that he would come back to me five-years old. It is fair, the way our time has been divided. It will all be fine as soon as I hang the sign on the door, pull the ice cream cake out of the freezer, tie balloons on the door handles, and wait for the doorbell to ring.

What I have now are just growing pains. I am sure they will return again. There's kindergarten and sleepover camp and high school and college and all kinds of adventures ahead. So it's good to know that they can be soothed with prayers said over the phone and yoga and reminders of just how lucky we are.

For the past few weeks, Lil E has had growing pains of his own, insisting that he would not be turning five. Every few days and whenever we talked about his birthday plans and party, he would saying matter-of-factly that he would be happy to celebrate but that he would be turning four again.

We talked and talked and talked about it -- or at least, I tried. And then I finally shrugged my shoulders and smiled and said, "OK, four it is."

Four had been, after all, a very good year for the boy. A wonderful, hilarious, hopeful, stretching year.

The only time he gave in to his upcoming age was when my mom said she guessed she'd have to return the toys that she bought for him that were clearly marked "For age five and older."

"OK! OK!," he conceded. "I guess I will turn five after all."

We laughed and he shrugged his own shoulders and it seemed like the birthday would go on as planned. Until a few days later when the insistence started all over again. Again, I told him that was fine, that four would be just fine.

Perhaps spending some time with his dad and grandparents has eased some of his resistance to turning a year older. I'm sure the presents and squeals and attention and excitement haven't hurt either. Whatever it is, he sounded calm and happy on the phone tonight. Just after we thanked God for Star Wars and Legos and Scooby Doo and chocolate ice cream, I said goodbye to the boy so determined to not turn five tomorrow.

"Good night, four-year old," I whispered into the phone. "I love you."

"Good night, 37-year old," he whispered back. "I love you, too!"

And with that, there was silence. With that, I think we both said farewell to four.

It's not easy. For either of us. But after ice cream, I'm thanking God that we're growing together tonight.

When Monday finally fell

My Monday began at 1 a.m. I intended to be in bed much earlier. To have a long bath, maybe even really read the words in Real Simple magazine rather than just rub my fingers over the pretty, pretty pictures. Instead, I was making a ham sandwich on a mini bagel for Lil E's lunch, filling a snack bag with fishy crackers, trying desperately to think through the cloud of exhaustion rising up in my brain to come up with a poem and drawings to decorate the daily note I tuck in his "Attack of the Clones" lunchbox.

I couldn't do it. I was too tired and the note would have to wait until morning.

Ahhh, morning. Six short hours away. Five, by the time I straightened up, washed up, crawled into bed. It was not the restful sleep I needed, and it was my own fault for staying up to do more work and talking than I really needed to. Rather than dwell on what I could've/should've/blahblahblah, I put on a dress and red lipstick. My 4-inch heels didn't hide my tired eyes, but they helped me walk -- or run -- through my morning.

I sped through breakfast, coffee, traffic, preschool drop-off. From there, I headed downtown for a blogging event. I hunted for parking while on the phone with my mom, devising a list of party supplies for Lil E's birthday. I rushed into the event, drank more coffee, caught up with mama bloggers I haven't seen in a long time.

Although I had lovely mini-massage and a de-stressing cool stone eye treatment, I couldn't shake the tired-hyped feeling. I listened carefully during the presentation, asked questions, tried only to peek under the table a few times to survey the shoes of the women sitting around me. But my attempts to be quiet and still were disrupted when I knocked over my champagne glass, slashed my thumb, made everyone turn and look, and a few run for tissues, a bandage, a trash basket.

As the event wound down, my parting conversations took on a happy but high energy. I pulled myself away, rushed out the door, rounded the corner, and looked up to see the meter maid placing a ticket under the windshield wipers on my car. I was hurrying. I was too late.

The rest of the day had this pace. I felt pulled to get away from my laptop, turn off the noise, go for a long walk to stretch my legs and quiet my thoughts. But there was too much to do, and pretty soon, there was preschool pick-up and a trip to the park, dinner, laundry, a bath for the boy, and bedtime.

I only stopped when I had to.

Then, the stillness came as it often does, curled up with my boy in a single bed, with a book and kisses on damp hair, prayers of thanks for whatever kind of day it was, the same songs I sing every single night. Wrapped in each other, time unwinds, worries ease, everything seems to float out of the room. Nothing is left but the shallow breath of this child against my chest, the darkness, hours ahead to let everything else go.

There are some nights when I wish I had a partner to turn to, to ask to please go in and see why the kid is still not asleep. There are early morning hours when I have cursed the world that I am cleaning up wet sheets or tending to a sick child all alone. There are times when I wish there was someone listening adoringly on the other side of the wall while I am singing lullabies. 

Most nights, though -- this Monday night -- I wanted that bedtime all to myself. I wanted to soothe my son to sleep with the safe, happy routine that share nearly every night. I also wanted it to soothe me. Just for me. I wanted it to make the $50 parking ticket and big Band-Aid on my bloody thumb and blogging mania all disappear while we read about Henry and Ribsy, while I pulled him close to me, while I drifted off for a little while.

The work would wait another ten minutes. All of my choices aren't exactly right and I know I don't control very much anyway. No matter the mayhem, I can choose to end the first day of my work week in exactly the way I wanted to begin it. I can do that.

Nailed (and not the fun way)

My honed-in, on-top-of-it, fully-in-control efforts to take good care this weekend came to a screeching halt only seconds after I pulled out of the parking space, the car full of shorts and swimsuits, floaties and trashy magazines.

I had a flat. Not the kind of flat tire you can (ahem) ignore until your dad looks at you like you have absolutely no knowledge of the intricacies of the machine you operate multiple times a day (more ahems). No, the kind of flat tire you can hear flap-flap-flapping, even above the cranked up Jackson 5 and child with the incessant questions about why we can't have saltwater taffy for dinner if we are technically on a holiday weekend.

Did I mention I was wearing a dress? And heels?

By some lovely fortuitousness or fate, my downstairs neighbor pulled up just as I hopped out to investigate my tire. He asked what was wrong. I tried not to burst into tears. What in the world was I going to do?

If I pull back the camera, if I take a deep breath, I know that a flat tire is a very small obstacle. I also know that I can change a tire myself (right?!...right?...maybe?...probably?...I think so).

But there I was with a car full of kid and bags and just wanting to get on the road so I could take care of myself already and I was completely halted by nothing more than (I would later find out) a nail crammed into my tire. I felt like I was on the brink of irrationality, tears, and some internal rant about how this was surely The Ex's fault for some reason or another when the neighbor asked me if I'd like his help.

I felt a Rolodex of skills I am sorely lacking, things I really should know, stuff I've never learned flip through my brain. How could I be the only adult in a household and not know how to change a tire? Or an air conditioning filter? Or the stubborn lightbulb over the shower? What in the hell am I doing? Would this qualify me to have my feminist card confiscated? How in the world am I going to thrive as a single mom if my household knowledge is at the elementary level. It was a fast and furious downslide of questions and confidence. It was a sudden and sharp feeling I know surfaces often for many single parents -- one of being in it completely alone.

I have not been very good at asking for help, although I have gotten better since I've become a single mom. And I am not even that good at accepting help, although I need it more than I have at other points in my life. Even in this moment, standing there in pink ruffles and patent leather, I hesitated.

But then it dawned on me -- really in just milliseconds, in a message that seemingly fell from the trees -- that saying yes to help is an act of self-care as well. I nodded.

He came back a few minutes later, still wearing a tie and dress shoes, carrying a something called a Super Jack. Even though I insisted on loosening the lug nuts myself so I contributed at least a little bit, my neighbor completely changed the tire for me. No big deal, no complaints, no worries.

We talked about our kids going back to school and the conservative healthcare crazies and whether we'd be renewing our leases in the building where we live. All the while, he cranked and cranked and fit and re-fit my tires.

A half-hour and many thanks later, we were on the expressway headed out of town. I had a grease spot on the front of my dress and we were already anxious to make a dinner stop. But we were OK. We were on our way.

Even better, I felt grateful, assured, calm. I was already a few miles down the road of taking care of myself.

P.S. Just so we're all a bit more prepared: Here's a step-by-step video by a young woman in a janky tank top of how to change a flat tire. Not that YOU need it. Mostly, it's just for me.

Sometimes, self-care is quiet and still. Other times, it is silky and on sale.

When I told you I was going to seize this time to take better care of myself, I wasn't kidding. The other 4,321 times?  Yeahhhh, mildly serious. This time? I am truly putting forth the best effort I can in the moment. In the past, I've told myself I need to take better care, I should take better care. Now, I am just choosing to, and that has made all the difference.

It has made so much difference, in fact, that I happily packed my running shoes and workout clothes for our trip to my parents' lake house this weekend. While we are there, I am choosing not to stress out about the God-awful cell reception and nonexistent Internet connection and have told all my friends I will be out of touch until we are back in the swing of school and schedules next week.

Of course, I will only be out of touch with my 2.0 life. I will be sitting in the sand while Lil E plays in the water, taking cocktail cruises on the pontoon boat with my parents at sunset, and maybe even taking in a third-run movie in town or a bad sitcom in syndication at the house. I may do something radical, like read a whole magazine. I'm crossing my fingers for good estate juju that creates the good stress of shoving a 1950s red-vinyl-and-chrome kitchen table set into the back of my car or choosing between gawdy-awful old lady jewelry.

And if it gets to be too much or I get antsy being unplugged, then we may come home early and take care of laundry and grocery shopping and other details. We shall see.

Just to balance all this om-like behavior, do know that my better-cared-for self is also screaming for this silky number. I am pretty sure it will soothe my spirit as much as the walking and quiet time. And since I don't have any dinner dates lined up for the near future, maybe someone can partner with me in my efforts to choose me and plan a wedding that I can wear it to. Anyone? Anyone willing to help a sister out?

Overheard at his first sleepover

I'm feeling a bit triumphant right now. Lil E's first sleepover with one of his favorite buddies, Lil F, went strangely, spookily well. There was playing, pizza, and the partially viewed "Hotel for Dogs." By 9 p.m., both boys were sound asleep. Lil E was stretched out on his bed, one leg propped up on the other like he was taking a siesta in an office chair, and his friend was sprawled out and snoring on a small air mattress wedged into the play space on my son's toy-crowded floor.

They -- and I am fully aware that admitting this will thrust the wrath of the preschool gods upon me at the next sleepover -- slept soundly for eleven glorious hours, ate a bit of breakfast, and were sad to say goodbye. Aside from the incessant questions about when he reciprocate by spending the night at his friend's house, it was a complete success for Lil E.

Even if it would have been an all-night gutteral scream-fest, it would have all been worth it to hear the boys innocently, earnestly debating whether the word "doo-doo" (thanks, Jew-fro kid in "Hotel for Dogs") means "dude" or "poop" (still apparently up for debate between the two after much deliberation on each side).

It would have also been worth to hear a moment that could have stopped at this sign that Lil E is processing some really big stuff but went on to be a sign that these boys are in it together. They were pulling on tiny undies and comfy pants in Lil E's room when I overheard them from the next room.

Lil E: Hey, Lil F! My parents aren't married anymore. A judge said they aren't and so they are not married.

Lil F: Oh. I don't think my parents are married anymore either.

Lil E: Ummm, but your parents live together in the same house.

Lil F: OH YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Thank goodness that was solved. Now back to counting our lucky little sleepover stars.

Postcards from the Oregon coast: We dipped our toes in the ocean

To a Midwestern city grrrl like me, there is nothing closer to heaven than feeling the tide rise up to meet your ankles, seeing the stars clear and bright in a dark sky, and hearing any natural sound above the screech of cars and sirens and skateboards. 

I love my home in the city and it us truly where we belong. But my heart is at ease at the ocean, on a hiking trail, and where the foul smell of patchouli almost is over-powered by the aroma of good coffee and much better microbrews.

We left the patchouli stench of Corvallis in the last weekend of our first solo vacation for the coast of Oregon. We weren't solo at that point. My good friend Paula accompanied us, and made arrangements for us to stay at a lovely little hotel right on Nye Beach, just outside of Newport.

Any anxieties of work or anything else left my body the moment I saw the blue of the ocean. As I always do when I hear the waves clamor against the sand, I felt small, insignificant, at ease. There is nothing like that feeling, nothing like a reminder of the speck of sand you are in the universe to make it easy to put off (maybe even forget) deadlines, dating, dealing with an ex.

Lil E wanted to surf in the Pacific (I love him). But once he felt the water on his toes, he conceded to just running along the tide line in the sand. We did eat great seafood and shopped in lovely little boutiques. We woke up the sea lions who lazed at the Newport piers by barking at them. We went for a tour of one of the best aquariums in the country, petted the starfish and rays, stared at the tanks of amazingly beautiful jellyfish, and clapped as the seals and sea lions performed tricks during feeding time.

One day, though, I promised him we'd be back in wetsuits to ride some of those waves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Postcards from Corvallis: And he ran, he ran so far away

Ten years ago, I couldn't wait to drive out of Corvallis, Oregon for good. I left with a wad of cash The Ex and I combined from our closed bank accounts, driving a UHaul, pulling a 1981 green Volvo station wagon. I was delirious and in a tradition my college roommate and I started when we screeched out of the small Missouri town for breaks, I flipped off the whole city as I drove away.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck you, Corvallis!" I screamed. Rebellious, I know.

I thought of that last week when I drove over the bridge where I once flailed expletives. This time, I was driving into town. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and let the happiness to be back fill me up.

I never imagined I'd return to Corvallis this way, with a boy in the backseat clinging to a light saber, visiting friends I haven't seen since I was married, relieved to reclaim this part of my past.

I went to grad school in Corvallis, laughed often at being a Women Studies major at a school that chanted "I'm a Beaver Believer." While I lived there, I was an adjunct professor, a nanny, a waitress. I lusted after a surfer, put up with a bartender, fell in love with an engineer, and found the person I thought was the one. I returned over the years to visit friends, eat my favorite dishes at the bistro where I worked, defend my thesis and claim my degree, and hope I'd run into the baby girl who I once helped raise during her first year.

Now we were back to see one friend, the fabulous Paula, who runs a blueberry farm with her husband on the outskirts of town. We came to Corvallis to wander around and just enjoy the town for what it is -- pretty, smallish, very Oregon. 

I also wanted to show Lil E the places where I lived, where his father and I met and shared a home, where that history was forged. It felt important for him to see if he will ever understand the whole story of our family, so that neither of us gets stuck in the transition or or pain drama or last couple of years.

We took refuge on the blueberry farm. We only ventured out to tour all those old apartments and a bit of Oregon State University. We stopped in for pizza and salad at an old favorite, American Dream, and find another bartender friend at a new restaurant, Aqua. Most of our time was spent walking in between aisles and aisles of blueberry bushes, cuddling up to our friends' many pets, and relaxing under twinkly lights in the hot tub Lil E kept calling the "warm pool."

The most precious postcard from this part of our trip took place in our first few hours there. After driving out to the edge of the farm and collecting buckets of blackberries and blueberries, our hands stained with the evidence of all we ate while we were out there, we climbed in the golf cart to head back to the house. Lil E asked politely if he could run along side with the dogs rather than run. It was a long way back to the house, but we agreed, cheering him on as he ran and ran and ran and ran all the way home.

We laughed when he did double-takes when the road forked through different rows of bushes and as he pumped his little arms hard to keep up with the dogs and outrace our cart.

He was so determined. And still, a sense of peace and freedom emanated from him.

I loved watching him, loved that I captured a bit of it. If it is possible, I loved him even more in those minutes.

We're back, I kept thinking. I am here with my boy and we're back.

Yes, we rode the Beaver. Shush it.

 

 

 

Casey, the not-always-friendly horse, loved Lil E.

 

Cooling off in the shed with an ice-cream sandwich and dogs Porter and Rex.

 

On the river walk just outside the restaurant where his dad and I met. I rode my bike on this path and pushed another mother's child in a stroller along the river on many summer days. So lovely to share it with my son.