...and then there was one.

“twins!”

we stared intently, squinting to make sense out of the black and white blobs assembled on the screen.

“can you see them?”

“umm… i think?”— half-hoping that if i couldn’t, then they wouldn’t…be a thing. we were there for #2. but nowhere in my plans was there ever any inkling, an iota of thought, about a third.

my eyes were glued to the monitor as she clicked away, the cursor plotting points from end to end across two tiny, bean-shaped eggs.

for 26 weeks, i watched them grow—slowly transforming from tiny blobs into…life. hearts beating, arms waving, legs kicking. what was at first terrifying became both weird and wonderful. a crazy twist of fate that we came to not only accept, but embrace.

i looked forward to my weekly ultrasound visits as a chance to peek into this big, round belly and see the twins spinning, twirling, playing, a surreal glimpse into what was soon to be a very real part of our lives.

week 27. i got to the doctor’s office for a routine check-up, a day like any other day.

“let’s see how we’re doing!”

she slid the smooth ultrasound device across my belly, clicking away to capture the images.

not much small talk. strange…

baby A. click. click. click.

baby B. click. click. click.

back to baby A.

still no words.

in the room, usually filled with banter about how the rascals were moving so much that she couldn’t get a good view, the silence was deafening. i started to feel a sense of panic wash over me. my heart began to race. i tried to divert the attention, focusing on the muzac piping in through the office stereo. breathe in. breathe out. eyes welling up though nothing was confirmed.

after 10 minutes of staring at the ceiling, at the sink, at the floor—anything but the screen—the doctor entered the room.

“i’m sorry. one of the babies just stopped growing.”

and just like that, there was one.

“inexplicable.” “horribly sad, yet somehow meant to be.” all the things that people say (and you say to yourself) to deal with such a tragic loss.

when he stopped growing, there was a void, a hole, an emptiness, that with each day grew smaller and smaller thanks to the radiant bundle of energy and love and light that is my logan.

he was there. he was ours. he was part of our family. and then he was gone.

his name was luke.

flash forward to now. four years later, time has healed. i count my blessings every single day for the amazing family that fills me up, holds me up, and gives me meaning in this mad world.

but every time i hear that name, there is still a tinge, that feeling, the memory of someone that was a part of me, yet i never got to meet.

one day, my brother came over. he lives for horses. works so he can ride. it’s his sanity, clarity, grounding for his sometime frenetic tendencies. he lost his first horse suddenly to a freakish equine virus.

he too had a void to fill.

he spent every free minute scouring websites, viewing hundreds of videos of horses spread out across the tri-state area. after months of searching, he finally zeroed in on two. sirage was a regal fresian with an athletic build and an elegant gait. he was convinced that this was the one.

he put money down for the pre-purchase, arranged for the vet check, and planned the terms of the negotiation. in his mind, it was a done deal. dot the I’s, cross the T’s, and he would have his horse.

but in the days leading up to the purchase, things began to sour. the horse was slightly smaller than the standard. the seller became defensive, aloof, and refused to negotiate. what seemed so right felt now, in his gut, just wrong.

there were two choices…and just like that, there was one.

big brown eyes, the gentlest soul, a stunning yet serene presence.

“you can train a horse to ride, but you can’t teach him how to love. this one…he’s a lover,” said his previous owner, welling up as she stroked his soft, velvety nose.

this was it. the one. a new member of our family. and his name was luke.

was it a sign? a karmic signal from above? maybe. or was it merely a crazy, uncanny coincidence that brought him to us? probably.

all i know is that now, when i hear the name: “luke.” the tinge is replaced by comfort—a sense that maybe, after all this time, maybe it was “meant to be.”

the superhero

portrait of betsy

"i don't know how you do it,"  they say.

she smiles and brushes it off.  she doesn’t know either.

she plows through every day. because she has to. because she wants to. because she loves to.

her mommy superpowers get her through.

she’s strong. she’s caring. she’s organized. she’s devoted. she’s invincible.

she's invisible. she does it so well that the effort goes unnoticed. she does it so well because it’s expected and she can’t disappoint. she makes it look easy…though behind the scenes it barely comes together. “her best” is so good that they just can’t see…

and then someone does see.

in between drop offs and pickups and the countless errands that fill her day, she stops at starbucks. fill ‘er up. fuel to function. energy for the endless day ahead.

“grande skim latte!” the cashier yells from behind the counter. today like any other day.

and then the pattern interrupt.

“i just have to tell you that you have the nicest eyelashes i’ve ever seen.”

like a blast of kryptonite, she’s crushed. pools well up in her big brown eyes.

in that moment, she is seen... for her beauty. as a woman. as a person. as someone other than “a mom.”

she is wonder woman. gold bangles. wellie boots. with the power to spin a million plates on any given day. she is everything to everyone.

she is an unsung hero.

she is a mom. but she is also more.

the love letter

A few months back, I was scanning through my Facebook feed, killing time while waiting in line at Starbucks. It was pretty standard fare: a potpourri of kiddie pix, instagrams, cat memes, food porn and the occasional rant about politics or the weather.  

My thumb scrolled up and up, occasionally gliding across the “like” button as I caught up on the details of my friends’ daily lives. And then came a post that caused me to pause.

It was an image of a watercolor depicting a faint landscape: earth, air and a star-speckled sky.  Over the image, in a handwritten typeface, was a quote from Buddha.

“The trouble is, you think you have time.”

It was posted by a friend, a mother of two beautiful children, who had just completed a course of chemo after being diagnosed with breast cancer.

I froze for a second, deeply touched by this simple, yet profound—and for her so very intimate and personal—truth. I took a deep breath, tilted my head back to suck back the tears, and moved to the front of the line.

Though I went on with my day that post and the emotion it triggered stayed with me. As a parent, it’s something I reflect on often. In the past week, it’s been all the more visceral.

You can plan and strive and dream and live…and in an instant, you could leave this earth.

The other day, I watched a CBS “Sunday Morning” segment entitled, “If Only.” It focused on the utter fragility of life—how inexplicable, unexpected circumstances like 9/11 and more recently the Boston Marathon bombings and Texas fertilizer plant explosion, can not only end lives tragically, but leave those that remain with guilt and regret for words left unsaid, paths not taken, feelings left unshared.

The question was posed: ”What would you do differently if you knew? What would you have said to a loved one, a spouse, a parent, a brother or sister, a mentor, a friend or even an enemy?

They then profiled people who filled in the blank.

“If only…I would’ve had the chance to thank the family that hid me and my parents from the Nazis during the Holocaust…”

“If only…I would’ve told my grade school teacher ‘I’m sorry for making fun of you—the clothes you wore and the way you walked. You taught me so many things…and inspired me to become a teacher’…”

Each person wept as they read out loud words they had written but would never be heard.

“The trouble is, you think you have time.”

The truth is, most of us waste it—buried in the weeds, busying ourselves with activities, scanning, surfing, doling out trivial tidbits that pass the time, and only skim the surface of true emotion. We miss the opportunities we have every single day to thank someone, to say I’m sorry, to encourage, to praise, to appreciate.

Usually it takes a catalyst (an illness or a tragedy) to push us over the edge. To step out side of our comfort zone and into vulnerability. To truly see another person and tell them how you feel. But doing so can become a catalyst for something so much bigger than yourself.

My mom was the youngest of sixteen kids. Her mom died during childbirth so she never knew what it was like to have a mother. She grew up in a culture where emotions weren’t expressed, so a terse “Be good.” “Study hard.” Or “Love you.” were the extent of feelings shared. I knew she loved me through her actions, not often through her words.

But at some point along the way, 13 years ago to be exact, she wrote me a letter—astounding, unexpected, so genuinely heartfelt—and I will cherish it for the rest of my life. Though I am truly blessed with an amazing family, great friends, a solid job, a home in a city that I love, I also have doubts, insecurities, questions about what I’m doing and what the future holds. I am, like we all are, simply trying to do my best, vacillating between clear direction and completely winging it.

I came across the letter randomly, tucked away in a shoebox full of pictures and miscellaneous mementos I had collected through the years.  I found it—or it found me—at a time when I needed a nudge, a little reassurance, words of encouragement when I started to doubt.

We didn’t always see eye to eye. She wanted me to be a lawyer and I chose a career in advertising. She was no frills; for me, the fancier, the better.  But the letter bridged the gap, filled in the blanks, revealed a depth of feeling that I never knew she had.

My Dearest Celia,

I have been wanting to try this new stationery for a long time now, so…finally I found the box and put it on my desk and started writing to you.

I can’t believe you are so grown. To me, you are still my baby. I guess I cannot believe either I am as old as I am.

Cel, you have grown to be so mature, so charming, so beautiful, so loving, so responsible, etc., etc., etc. Your dad and I are so proud of you. We are so lucky to have a daughter like you. We love you very much.

We’re happy you enjoy and love your work. I did not doubt for one minute you would achieve such advancement. So fast! I have seen and witnessed how talented to you are. You are such an incredible being. I have always admired you. You can always attain what you strive for once you put your effort into it. As you know, I have consulted you about different things even when you were just in high school.

I just want to emphasize once more that you make us happy with what you do and we are proud of you…Stay as sweet and as wonderful as you have been. Follow your instincts. Always be thankful for the gifts you have. God bless you.

Love,

Mom

She was a successful neurologist who built a practice filled with patients who loved her. And here she was expressing how much she admired me?! It was shocking, heartfelt…and so, so beautiful. Years after it was written, it still had the power to cast a whole new light on our relationship. The letter was a gift—tangible, real, something to hold onto despite the fact the she is gone.

We think we have time…but nobody knows for sure. Write a letter. Pick up the phone. Say the words that need to be said. You have nothing to lose. And the person on the receiving end has everything to gain.

#worthit

it’s one of my favorite mantras. one that i whisper to myself as i justify pulling the trigger on a shiny new pair of shoes. or egging my friends on when they debate eating their healthy, packed lunch or going out for a splurge. i say it half jokingly, and half-serious—because even though i probably don’t need that last glass of bubbles, i certainly feel like a million bucks (and hence am #worthit at the time) to soak up some pampering, though i pay the price in a high-roller hangover the next morning.

the truth is we all need—and deserve—a little indulgence here or there to help us get through the drudgery. but sadly, if you’re a mom, those moments of “me time” are few and far between.

i do my best to pull it together: look presentable, accessorize, prioritize, but most often it feels like each day is a whirling mass of semi-organized chaos. get up. get dressed. feed kids. fill out forms. pack lunch. track down hats, gloves, mittens, boots. go to work. hop on train. pick up one. hop in car. pick up 2. back home. homework. make dinner. eat. bath. brush teeth. tuck in. lather. rinse. repeat.

the daily grind is a far cry from the bump ‘n’ grind of life before kids. i think about all the “stuff” i used to buy. all the time i used to have. all the friends i used to see. all the dates we used to make. and try to cobble together bits and pieces of those aspects of life that made me whole.

i have to admit: sometimes the constant struggle to balance it all gets to me. i lose it. when the dervishes are whirling, and the eyes are rolling, and the shoes are stomping, and the bickering turns into full-on brawls, i don’t hesitate to play the tried and true parent card. given my shoe selection, they most likely wouldn’t buy the “walking barefoot for miles to school” shtick that my mom and dad used on us, but the whole lecture about sacrifice and gratitude…please. “everything we do is for YOU.” (queue up bryan adams…)

to say it’s being dramatic is simply inaccurate. every word of the speech is true…but it can also feel like the reverse is true. as a parent, does prioritizing yourself always come last?

one night i was sitting on the couch and i’d just hit a wall. i was done. dishes in the sink. laundry in the basket. to-do list left untouched from the day before. from the distance, i could hear the wild elephants approaching.

“keep it down guys! it’s too loud for the neighbors!” ugh. “FML.”

the stomping got louder.

“MOMMY!!”

“WHAT?” in my mind, i was readying my response, preparing to pull from the repertoire of phrases uttered infinitely throughout the day. “you’re 8, he’s 3. give it back; we don’t take other people’s things. if you don’t share, you both are going to lose it. because i said so, that’s why…”

“we have a surprise for you!” an outburst of giggles. hands behind their backs. grinning from ear to ear. before i could even respond, they threw their hands open. “it’s you, mommy!”

in the midst of playing, they made a little lego figure of me.

“look she has blue pants just like you! blue is your favorite color, right mommy? and see, she has a big bracelet and long hair that’s in a ponytail. she even has a white purse, mommy. that’s YOU!”

their uncanny attention to accessory details aside(!), i thought “wow…that’s me”… and i’m also a chair when the little one climbs into my lap. and a measuring stick for the biggie to compare himself to. and a hand holder. and a boo boo blower. and a pasta maker. and a chocolate sharer. and a “fancy shoe” wearer.

they watch. they pay attention. they know your likes and dislikes. they shape you. and they are walking, breathing little pieces of you.

no one’s identity is fixed. and your sense of meaning inevitably changes as you move from one stage in life to the next. motherhood is not ALL of me. but it is a huge, indelible part. though sometimes i miss the freedom, simplicity, and yes, even selfishness of those early days, in an instant, i’m reminded why my broken nails, bloodshot eyes, chipped plates, crayon on walls, never-enough-time-for-anything existence is completely, undeniably #worthit.

what lies ahead

heading into the holiday season, i spent several days pouring through photos (and if you know me, there are thousands) to find the perfect shot for our holiday cards. as i sifted through the archive, i found many images that pulled me in, but that i couldn’t use because they all had one thing in common: they were shots of my kids from behind—taken from the vantage point of a mom, hanging back a couple steps and watching as they plunged into whatever lay ahead.

running at full speed up the 150-foot sand dunes with tiny shovels in hand. standing with pant legs rolled up as waves devoured their delicious little toes. sprinting to find the perfect pumpkins. staring with awe into fish tanks and candy shops, holiday windows and bakery shelves. setting aside brotherly quarrels to walk hand in hand through the crunchy fall leaves and giant rain puddles.

you can’t see their faces, but you can sense their wonder, the gusto with which they plunge into new experiences. as parents, you watch with a mix of pride and perhaps a touch sadness as these little beings go out into the world to explore, to experience, to see, touch and taste, to learn to stand on their own.

you try to prepare them as best as you can. when you fall, brush it off. if you lose, congratulate the winner. if you hurt someone, say you’re sorry. all the rules of engagement and pithy life lessons make sense…in a world full of order.

and then something happens to remind you that sometimes you simply have no control. though it’s been two weeks since the sandy hook tragedy, the horror of that day is the worst case scenario, every parent’s most horrific nightmare come true. one day, we were worried about protecting our kids from skinned knees and scary dreams, bullies and bike falls…and now this?

for our kids—and even for ourselves—we don’t know what lies ahead. but what we do have is the ability to be present and grateful for each moment that we have.

that doesn’t mean it’s all rainbows and butterflies. in fact it’s the opposite. it’s hard to juggle life’s demands, be there for your family, keep your perspective and see the good. but try to remember, in those times, to hang back for bit. step away from the chaos. take a cue from the little ones and embrace the wonder of moments that happen every single day. you never know when they will be your last...

when you grow up

you know the age-old question we ask when family is gathered around and our kids have been exposed to just enough of the world to begin to articulate the answer.

“what do you want to be when you grow up?” we wait with baited breath, reveling in the notion that our child dreams of someday becoming a doctor or a veterinarian (swoon) or perhaps even a chef (double swoon!). we think it simultaneously adorable and terrifying if their response strays from the standard fare: an actress (gasp!) or…wait for it…a professional bowler (yes, this is my youngest son’s current career aspiration).

we ask the question in a light-hearted way, knowing that the answer will change umpteen times as they grow, all while reassuring them that no matter what they choose, we will support them. “we just want you to be happy, fulfilled and successful.” that’s all…no pressure. 

but the weight of that question stays with us long after we reach the supposed conclusion. our answer to the question kicks off a lifelong trajectory toward the end goal. it’s as if, when they reach it, the stars will align and balloons will fall from the sky in a congratulatory wave of affirmation that “you’ve made it.”

pushing forty, i think it’s safe to say i qualify as a “grown up.” what did i want to be when i grew up? my answers ranged from psychiatrist to MTV veejay to lawyer to travel writer to publicist to advertising pro.

“hey wait a minute…i do work in advertising now! doesn’t that mean that someone should be rolling out the red carpet now? where’s the champagne? the streamers? the hearty pat on the back for a job well done?”

“anyone there? …bueller?”

as you get older you realize that what you are—your profession—is only a sliver of who you are as a person. work success can yield a tremendous amount of pride and personal satisfaction, but it’s hardly the measure of a life. contrary to what society holds up as the ultimate goal, achieving career success, there’s so much more to the equation. just think of all the relationships you have and all the roles you play on a daily basis. in fact, i believe we’re asking the wrong question altogether.

at the end of the day, the real question is: “WHO do you want to be when you grow up?” what kind of person? friend? spouse? parent? at the end of your life, when they’re rolling out the dirt carpet, how do you want to be remembered? odds are those gathered together aren’t counting the campaigns you’ve launched, papers you’ve written, patients you’ve seen, contracts you’ve signed. no, it’s more likely they’re reflecting on the lives you’ve touched, the memories you created, the times you helped out, listened, cried or laughed together.

when you teach your kids (and even yourself) about life’s possibilities, root their identity in something real versus a title that may or may not provide fulfillment. surely they’ll find a path toward a career, but remember that an occupation is but one line in the story of a life. what’s more essential is character—the stuff that lies beneath. deep down, are they kind, sincere, witty, compassionate, generous, adventurous, creative, loyal? do they feel empathy? value relationships? genuinely care about others? in my book, those are the things to strive for—the true mark of success. 

cottage life

anyone who has grown up spending summers at a lakeside cottage knows “the feeling.” the brimming anticipation once the dates are set. the mental checklist of requisite supplies that begins to take shape the week before leaving. the behemoth “to bring” pile in the corner of the living room stacked high with swimsuits, towels, sunscreen, goggles, fishing rods, flip flops, first aid kit, food, food and more food. the song-filled drive and intermittent storytelling about the past years’ antics. the flutter in your heart when you pull into the drive and look out at the sunshine sparkling on the lake. the thundering stampede of little footsteps scrambling down the dock to see if there are any fish waiting to welcome our arrival.

slowly each family filters in and the quiet house comes to life, erupting with sounds: doors opening, bags shuffling, playful teasing, children squealing, hearts filled with so much joy.

growing up in cleveland with parents who couldn’t swim, i never had the opportunity to experience cottage life. sure we traveled a ton, but it was mostly to cities, and lodging ranged from relatives’ houses to hotels. never the same place year after year, it was much more about experiencing the new versus settling into the same old, same old…and i was perfectly fine with that.

my husband, on the other hand, grew up with a family cottage. nestled on a small lake in michigan, their cottage was built by his grandfather, stone by stone, wood beam by wood beam. and for over 50 years, it served as the centering point for the family’s most cherished memories. i know many of them by heart—not because i actually experienced them firsthand, but rather because they were told and retold countless times throughout our time together:

the time when my husband, who is never at a loss for words, was so enamored by the sound of his own voice that he literally walked and talked himself right off the dock and into the water, mid-sentence! Or the endless hours they’d spend playing fetch with liza, their black lab, throwing rocks off the dock and watching her dive "like an otter" under the water to retrieve them. waterskiing on the glassy lake from dawn till dusk. the green leather chaise lounge that was cool in the summer but would stick to your wet bathing suit when you sat down. michigan brand cottage cheese with vine ripened tomatoes and chives cut from grandma’s garden.

one of the greatest gifts my husband ever shared with me was introducing me to “cottage life.” when we started our family, we took the plunge, finding a beautiful cottage online in glen arbor, michigan called the beechtree lodge. (as a side note, i came to find out the word “cottage” can mean anything from a cozy traditional bungalow to a ginormous modern house, with the only essential element being close proximity to water.)

for four years in a row, we rented the same cottage, affectionately dubbed “the big house” by our son the first time he laid eyes on it. with each year, we created vivid memories, celebrated milestones, and shared countless simple moments…that live on through the stories we tell, yes, over and over again:

our 3-year-old’s very first flip-flopped sprint down the dock at full speed. gorging on homemade cinnamon sugar donuts and farm fresh fruit pies from barb's bakery. catching minnows using goldfish (crackers) as bait. lazing on the hammock listening to our little boy hold court, chatting, laughing, snuggling. hearing little voices giggling from a rectangular chest on the patio, only to find seven (i repeat seven) chimpy-faced grins staring back at me and yelling “SURPRISE!” when i lifted up the lid. watching my dad bob like a cork, legs straight up in the air while trying to find his balance on an inner tube. “the car wash,” when my mom got unceremoniously dunked into the lake from less-than-stellar instructions on how to hold the rope on said inner tube. watching my parents quietly watching my kids—their grandkids—while morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. discovering that my husband’s wonderful waterskiing skills landed his wedding ring somewhere down at the bottom of the lake (ok that might not have been my fondest memory!). schooling my brother on skiing, watching him leave dejected for not getting up one year, and then returning, determined—and triumphant—the next. plunging one by one into the crystal clear deep blue lake. laying on our backs on the dock in the pitch black night looking up in awe at the star-studded sky. tubing, boating, fishing, skiing, eating…and always howling laughter emanating from all corners of that big, beautiful house.

every year we yielded to the gravitational pull—the heartstrings beckoning us back—away from home and yet closer to home than anywhere else. exercise was certainly not a priority at the cottage, but our abs were worked out daily with hysterical belly laughs and endless hours of talking about everything and nothing.

when i pictured a “cottage” in my youth, i imagined a cozy hansel & gretel-style house in the middle of an enchanted forest. knowing what i know now, perhaps i wasn’t too far off. magic happens in those times when we’re away from the everyday. when we can see clearly the stuff and the people that matter most. maybe that’s pixie dust twinkling on the water at daybreak. or maybe it’s just us, living life as it should be...

unforgettable

i could feel the beads of sweat taking shape. starting at the temples and rolling gently down the sides of my flushed cheeks. the usually pin-straight dorothy hamill bob looked more like a shaggy helmet, with a faint halo of frizz around the edges.

at eight years old, this was my first taste of southern-style heat. several hours in the baking georgia sun transformed my crisp white terry cloth romper into a dingy sweat mop, clinging to my skin like a piece of bologna on warm bread.

over the years, our family vacations covered most of the requisite tourist attractions: disney, D.C., new york…but this trip broke the mold. we were in atlanta visiting cousins who had moved down south.

our grand tour started with a stop at the peachtree hotel. “COOL!!” we shrieked as we giddily glided to the top floor of the tower. the next stop, however, wasn’t nearly as lofty. piled into a wood-paneled station wagon seventies-style, we were stuffed like sardines, no sign of seatbelts and non-existent AC. we rolled down the windows but there was no relief. the hot air rushed in and swirled around like a convection oven, ensuring even roasting on all sides.

three grueling hours later, we arrived at our destination: plains, georgia. a tiny podunk town that proudly boasts its status as the hometown of jimmy carter, his infamous brother billy, and their family peanut plantation. not exactly my idea of tweener paradise...and i could feel my head starting to throb.

we spent what felt like an eternity browsing kitschy peanut paraphernalia lining the gift shop shelves. finally, my dad, who was inexplicably tickled by the idea of “billy beer,” grabbed a 6-pack and we headed toward the car.

head hurting, sweat dripping, car dreading, i was not looking forward to enduring another three-hour haul back to atlanta. i looked at my mom, who was smashed next to me in the middle row.

“mom, i’m so hot. i really don’t feel well.”

she had a peanut brochure in her hand and was waving it back and forth like a fan to cool off, but when i spoke to her, she stopped. and looked back at me.

she grew up in the school of tough love. she lost her mom early in life and showed love by being strong, working hard, pushing through…but certainly not emoting. i fully expected her to hand me a napkin to mop up the sweat and leave it at that.

but she didn’t. instead she moved her big purse off to the side and pulled me closer. she didn’t say a word. but she laid my head in her lap and stroked my hair gently the entire way home, stopping only occasionally to fan me with the flyer.

i vividly remember feeling shocked…then serene…then utterly safe. 

it was a moment—in the midst of peaches and peanuts, sweltering heat and strange circumstances—that i will never forget. despite the millions of memories i have of my mom, this is one that still stands out. the day i knew that i was loved. and safe. and that she would always be there. 

there are moments in life that define the totality of an experience or paint the complete picture of a relationship between two people. when all the trivial things fall away, the peaks and valleys level off, and all that is left is what’s true.

the things you remember may not always be the obvious ones. as i look back, sometimes it’s the little things—felt most deeply—that linger longest.

the xmas compromise: our beloved bipolar tree

For most of us, the holidays are a time when we cling to traditions. We dust off cookie recipes passed down through generations. We pop in our favorite Christmas CDs (since we embarrassingly haven’t transferred the holiday playlist to the old iPod). We tune in to the tried and true TV classics from Rudolph and Frosty to “Home Alone” and “The Grinch.” And we pull out boxes of ornaments—each with its own story—and dig into decorating the tree.

I’m a huge fan of all these traditions. They don’t just help us mark the passing of time, but they warm our hearts with memories of growing up and great times spent with family and friends. Yet much as I love the purity of these pastimes, I have to admit…brace yourself because if you’re a traditionalist this is going to sound blasphemous…sometimes I just want to mix it up. Passing by gleaming store windows and paging through the sumptuous settings in Elle Décor, it’s hard not to be swept away by design inspiration.

So one day, as the season approached, I decided this would be the year we’d change things up.

“You want to do what?!” My husband was flabbergasted. “What about all the awesome ornaments we bought over the time we’ve been together? The hand-painted trout and birch canoe from Michigan. The driftwood Santa from Minnesota. The Winnie the Pooh and Piglet sitting on a chair sharing cookies (from the time when we were kitschy kids in love).”

He was pulling heartstrings like a puppeteer.

“I know, I totally love them all,” I said. “I just want a change.” Puppy dog eyes. “Everything is so mixy-matchy—this year I would just love to have a swanky tree. Matching ornaments, one ‘look.’ Trust me, you’ll love it.”

Shrug. “If it’ll make you happy, go ahead.”

Cha-ching. I felt like a teenager asking my dad for the car keys. License to drive…all the way to diva décor for the new tree!

Though he was skeptical, when I pulled out the sparkly booty of handblown glass, shiny silver and pearly white orbs, he was sold. (And if your mind was in the gutter just now, it may have also taken the other kind of booty as well to convince him!)

But little did I know, my “fancy tree” plans were about to be foiled.

The tree was up, the lights were on, the egg nog was poured, and the delicious scent of pine permeated the air. The family tree-decorating fun was about to commence. We pulled off the lids for the ornament boxes….and then all hell broke loose.

Little grubby hands, completely bypassing the silver and white sparkles, greedily grabbed at the intriguing collection of objects in the criss-cross grid of ornaments from years past.

“Awww, how cute! Look at this fish—it’s adorable!”

“Oh there’s a spotted cow with a Santa hat on. I love it!”

“Yes honey, they’re so cute. Mommy and Daddy got those when we were first dating. We love them, but we’re not using them yet.”

I strategically used the term “yet” in the hopes that we could fill up the tree with sparkly goodness first…and then conveniently run out of room for the riff raff. But for each bauble I put up, I’d find two crafty ornaments hung along the bottom half of the tree, as high as the kids arms could reach while standing on tip toes.

“Ok guys, here’s the deal,” I snapped. “We’re not doing these yet.” My inner Santa was quickly being usurped by my inner Scrooge.

I put a halt on my decorating agenda and quickly began removing the ornament invaders from the perimeter of the tree…only to find more sprouting up on the other side.

“Ummm Mommy, I don’t understand why you don’t want to put these pretty ones up.”

My inner monologue fired back. “Well let’s see…because red and blue and green and birch and wood and plastic don’t match silver and white. Because….”

As I rattled off the reasons why in my mind, I caught a reflection that caused me to reflect. The soft white tree lights shone on the shiny silver ornaments and giddy faces with Chicklet smiles were beaming as they happily placed the ornaments on the tree.

Was I really going to kill their xmas spirit by kicking the kitsch off the tree? On the other hand, wasn’t I entitled to a little sophistication for the holiday season?

In parenting, there’s often a tension, a push and pull between serving your interests and nurturing your kids’. Most of the time, you sacrifice for the greater good. You let go of your agenda and best laid plans. And other times, you find a way to work it out.

I turned to my kids. “You know what, you’re absolutely right. We can’t leave all these awesome ornaments off the tree. But they’re so cool they need their own special spot.” Their eyes twinkled with delight. In full transparency, the special spot was on the back side of the tree, but that was beside the point. It was a win-win.

And so it was born: our beloved bipolar xmas tree—like a mullet, styled in the front with a party in the back. Silver and pearly white peacefully coexisting with snowmen and swimming trout.

When we were finished, we turned off the lights and stepped back to admire our work. I was on a quest for the perfect tree…and I, or rather we, succeeded in making it so.

before she wakes

Saturday morning in the suburbs was an eye-opener to me. We were spending the weekend at my brother and sister-in-laws and, sitting in the kitchen, still in PJ’s and sipping coffee while paging through the latest US Weekly, I became aware of an amazing phenomenon.

It was about 7:35 am and the doorbell rang.

“Seems too early for UPS,” I thought. “Maybe it’s the paper boy,” I said to myself, wondering if such a thing even exists anymore.

“Ding dong.” Another doorbell ring.

Whoever it was really has something urgent to say. “Hmmm wonder if they have Jehovah’s witnesses in this hood…”

She got up from the breakfast table, coffee in hand, and scurried over to the door.

“I think I know who it is.” She half-rolled her eyes and half-smiled. Now I was curious. 

The very millisecond after she unbolted the lock and swung open the door, I heard their high-pitched, giggly voices.

“Hi Mrs. Jones, can Emma come outside and play?”

“Sorry girls, she’s not awake yet. I’ll tell her to call you after she has breakfast.”

Wow these girls were on an agenda!

Not more than 15 minutes later, the doorbell rang again.  Persistence! I smell future Mary Kay careers up in this mug. 

“Ummm, can Evan come outside and play football?” This time the voices were lower, a bit awkward, with the occasional Peter Brady voice cracks sprinkled in. Again she explained that he wasn’t awake and they’d have to wait until he had some breakfast.

Fascinating. All this action before 8 in the morning—and it only continued to get busier. When the kids finally woke, they scarfed down some toasted bagels and milk, and then they were off! They disappeared out the front door in 2 consecutive door slams, and from then until late into the afternoon, we’d see them occasionally from the kitchen window, in groups of 4, 5 even 8, running, skipping, jumping (because of course one of the neighbors did have a trampoline!) in the vast expanse of connected backyards. It was really idyllic…

And I felt really guilty.

Though I could do without the crack-of-dawn wake-up calls, I kept wondering: by raising our kids in the city, were we cheating them of this wonderland of fun and friends, the freedom to roam and not have to be chaperoned and shuttled around to make sure they were safely out of harm’s way? Were we selfishly forcing them to stay when in reality they would be better off getting up in the wee hours and waking unsuspecting neighbors with friendly early morning doorbell rings and frolics around the cul-de-sac?

During the long drive home and the days that followed, I wrestled with the questions. And then, come Saturday, the doubts subsided. 

Why do we stay in the concrete jungle, where our houses are smaller and the yards nonexistent, where picket fences are replaced by battles for parking, where our kids are confined to supervised play dates versus the nebulous boundaries of neighborhood life?

The rituals of our mornings in the city remind me why. Like in the burbs, we’re also up at the crack—only in our house the pounding on the door is followed by firm little footsteps that lead right up to my bedside. The little grinning face directly in front of, nearly touching mine, heralds the rule: there’s no sleeping in in this house. And much as I love my sleep, I happily submit.

There’s an ease, an effortlessness to rising at this time. Before she wakes, the city is, in a word, a revelation. Serene. Glistening. Full of latent energy that slowly comes to life—before our eyes.

Just as they are immersed in the bliss of backyard bonding, we need only look as far as our window to see an ever-changing canvas of sky behind that amazing cityscape. Before the daily bustle begins, we hop into our car and zip through the streets like we own them, all the while admiring the parade of precious dogs sniffing the air, wagging their tails, and seemingly proud to prance around in their parkas and silly knit sweaters. Dedicated runners dot the sidewalks and lake paths, blood pumping, breath puffing, and cheeks rosy from the rush of the run and the brisk morning air. And every body of water—from the usually bustling river to the North Pond Nature Sanctuary by the lake—gleams, still as newly polished glass. When we get to the park, the kids take off, running, squealing, chasing each other across the open stretch of green grass.

It’s the same pure joy I witnessed in the backyards of suburbia.

As parents, whether in casual conversation or the nagging soundtracks that play out in our own heads, we’re often forced to defend our choice of city v. suburbs. Yet the perceptions of calm and chaos, urban versus suburban, are sometimes not as clear as we think. Is one truly better or worse? Or are they just different?

We’re all faced with choices to weigh, competing interests and priorities. But in the end, each one of us is simply trying to share with our kids the world that we love; give them a taste for the things that we crave; make them feel loved, secure and inspired by their surroundings.

What side of the picket fence do you fall on? It doesn’t matter. It’s all about embracing your choice. No matter where, immerse them, expose them, inspire them…and they’ll be better off because of it.