pancakes at midnight

May 8, 2016

knock. knock. knock.

it was pitch black in the room. curled up in a comfy ball under polka dot covers, i groaned and rolled over.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“hey cel, your mom’s home! wake up and give her a kiss goodnight.”

bleary-eyed, still half asleep, i flung my legs over the side of the bed and let my toes slide slowly into the yellow pile carpet. the feeling was oddly comforting despite my resistance to standing upright.

i shuffled slowly toward the door. in the dim light, i could see her white lab coat and the stethoscope slung loosely around her neck. she leaned over gently to kiss my brother on the cheek. then it was my turn.

“goodnight. love you.”

and that was it. a goodnight—in the middle of the night—from my mom who had just gotten home from making rounds at the hospital.

i was in first grade.

____________________________________

knock. knock. knock.

“UGH.” my voice was muffled under the purple pastel comforter.

“get dressed!”

i reached out clumsily, in search of the red swatch watch i had set on my nightstand hours earlier.

tuesday night time check: just before midnight. on a school night.

i hunkered down under the covers and put a pillow over my head.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“put some clothes on. we’re going for pancakes!”

and that’s exactly what we did.

home late again from the hospital, she was fried, missed us, and had a hankering for fluffy pancakes from country kitchen.

so the four of us piled her burgundy toronado and bonded over breakfast at the 24-hour diner down the street.

believe it or not, these late night rendezvous weren’t one-off occurrences, but rather a common paradox of growing up in my house. my mom didn’t stay home like other moms, bake cookies or plan play dates. she spoke with an accent, was a stickler for studying, and seemed uncomfortable with public displays of affection. but growing up with her was sprinkled with spontaneous rituals, routine surprises… and some of my fondest memories of family time.

driving to janet’s house after eating a full christmas dinner and opening presents at midnight, to eat late-night pizza. chewing on salty watermelon seeds in the wee hours (i didn’t even like them) with her and my aunts, just to hear all the family gossip. and so many more random things.

these times were weird and wonderful…probably far too embarrassing in my preteen mind to share with my fifth grade classmates who ate dinner at 6 o’clock sharp, followed by board games and bedtime rituals (whatever that meant to kids in “normal” families unlike my own).

but now i see those times—and her—in a different light. she was literally doing her best for us, every single day. when she wasn’t there, she wanted to be. and when she was there—at whatever time of day or night—she was present, and we knew we were loved.

you get the best characteristics from those you love, and whether consciously or through osmosis, they sink into your being, become a way of living or seeing the world. today, with my own kids, we bond over "brinner" (breakfast for dinner) and on vacation eat pie in bed. i drag them out of dead sleep to watch the sunrise and teach them to search for sea glass in the sand.

i’ve often written about my mom's work ethic and drive, but today, i am thankful for that wonderful sense of spontaneity that she passed on to me. we all have different circumstances, strengths and struggles. and there is no perfect way to parent. we’ll falter and sometimes even fail… but loving your kids with all you’ve got and doing the best you can for them—in your own way, in your own time, on your own schedule—they’ll remember those times. not just the big milestones, but the nothing little moments that end up meaning everything… and they will know that they were loved.

18 days

November 25, 2015

From the moment we got the first phone call to our last goodbyes at the cemetery.

It seems strange to say we were “lucky” for this time. Her death was so sudden. Out to dinner laughing with friends one minute…and then, in an instant, the universe shifted. A 911 call, a series of emergency heart surgeries, a courageous if not unfathomable recovery, a fragile moment of light and hope…before it was taken from us.

Those 18 days were an emotional roller coaster. Ups and downs. Long road trips back and forth from Chicago to Cleveland. Time spent in our heads, praying, hoping, processing, questioning. Running through the carousel of favorite moments and memories.

It’s been a month since she passed. Yet despite that time, there is a still a rawness, a sadness, surely exacerbated by the holidays. The process of accepting that she’s gone, of healing, and adjusting without her in our lives, has only just begun.

Family and friends who heard the news echoed the feeling we all felt, privately in our own hearts, and every time we greeted each other in the waiting room of the ICU, squeezing each other with weary, teary, yet hopeful eyes. Until the end.

“No words.”

After going through it myself, and shortly thereafter hearing of other friends who have lost loved ones—it occurred to me that there really are no words adequate to sum up the loss.

Those 18 days were a mixed bag of doubt, hope, despair, numbness, strength, sorrow and ultimately surrender.

Looking back on the photos I took during that time, I realized that, consciously or not, the images below captured how I was feeling in those moments, in a way that words couldn’t. In shadows, in nature, in art on the walls at the hospital, in moments, in the sky… I was looking for an answer.

Not sure I ever found it in those 18 days. But I did find comfort. In the beauty. In the order of things. In the belief that somehow, some way, there must be a reason why.

portrait of cecilia... part 2

November 8, 2015

A Eulogy for My Mom

When my mom died after years of dialysis and a failed kidney transplant, our family was devastated. Many of you gathered here today knew her – and shared our sadness, pain and sense of loss. With heavy hearts, in anger and disbelief, we all tried in vain to make sense of what had happened.

WHY? Why would God take such a good person—who helped SO many people, touched so many lives? Why would he take her—far too soon: From my dad? From my kids? From ME?

We all reflected on the times we talked with her, worked with her, laughed with her, ate with her, prayed with her, were comforted or healed by her.

Many of us, myself included, were angry about the unfairness of it all.

The irony… The tragedy. That affected us all in such a deep and personal way.

She died 11 years ago. The process of healing for my dad, my brother and I was slow, but over time we came to accept what had happened. She lived on through our memories, stories, traits that she passed on to us, and all the little things—the scent of her Estee’ Lauder Beautiful perfume, the quirks, all the things that made her our “mom.”

But we also knew that physically, in our daily lives, she was gone.

Three years later, my dad introduced us to Cecille. After our mom passed, we felt the void. But more importantly had always been worried about my dad. Would he be ok? Would he be lonely? The most important thing to us was his happiness so we accepted that he met someone new. She would be the companion he needed and we would be supportive of his decision… and that would be it.

But NEVER did we expect that she would be so, so much more than that—not only to him, but to our entire family. She never tried to force her way into our lives. She simply won us over. With her kindness, her fashion sense, her clear love of our dad… When two people meet and fall in love, you usually say they “grow old together”…but these two, it was like they grew “young” together: active, adventurous, always on the go. She was open and completely adored my kids. She was the only Lola they ever knew.

Like my mom, she was beautiful, strong and independent. But she also added this dimension of lightness to our lives—fun-loving, willing to try anything (from tubing to canoing, dune climbing, traveling the world) and she embraced life and new experiences.

Beyond the countless adventures we shared with her and my dad, there were also the unseen moments—not broadcast on Facebook—times that happened when the lights were dim and you could see a person for who they really are…

One of my most special memories of her was something so, so simple and pure. We were on a family trip to California, and during a quiet time in between sightseeing, the kids had disappeared from our hotel room to the adjoining room where Lolo and Lola were. After an hour or so, we decided to check on the boys. When we opened the door to their room, there were the kids. Christian and my dad were reading from a joke book (naturally), and Logan and Lola were lying in bed. She was tickling him. He was squealing, and they were both giggling with laughter. It was a moment of pure love for these kids… and I teared up as I thought to myself “God these kids are so lucky to be loved by her.”

My brother and I felt that same kind of love from her too – talking in the morning over breakfast and coffee, laughing about the kids, sharing good times and even some of our hardest times together.

She didn’t replace our mom… but she was a continuation of her. And we truly loved her.

But now… we’re standing here today with this aching sense of déjà vu. With heavy hearts, in anger and disbelief, we are all trying in vain—again—to make sense of what happened. WHY? Why would God take such a good person, who touched so many lives? Why would he take her—far too soon: From my dad? From her kids? From my kids? From us?

We are all reflecting on the times we talked with her, laughed with her, ate with her, prayed with her, danced with her or were inspired by her.

There were certainly some strange hints from the universe that somehow she was brought into OUR lives for a reason.

There was her name: Cecilia Domingo. My mom and dad’s names combined! Are you serious?

Both she and my dad were #11 in the birth order of their large families.

How could that NOT be meant to be?

But many of us now, myself included, may be angry about the unfairness of losing her. The irony… The tragedy.

The things that her body and spirit endured at the end are unthinkable. NO ONE should ever go through that. But those of us who were there with her at the hospital are in AWE of her strength and will during that trauma. To come back to consciousness, and squeeze our hands and wiggle her toes, and fight through everything to open her eyes… and say goodbye to us one last time. As awful as it was, it was a GIFT.

I wish I had the answer why this happened. As we do in this type of circumstance, we struggle to find a reason for this terrible loss. It may take time… or we may never know.

All we can do now is focus on the light she brought to our lives, and what she left behind.

· A husband who found in her a loving, vibrant companion and true partner.

· 6 kids: Carol, Neil, Michael and Louie + my brother and I, who were blessed to experience her love and support.

· 6 grandkids, who had the most generous, caring and supportive Lola.

· A room filled with family and friends who were touched by her.

There is a connective tissue, a bond that ties us all together now. One that was created because of her.

And like my mom, she will live on through our memories…of her laughter, her amazing sense of style, her kindness, her bluntness, her goodness, and all the little things that made her an amazing mom, grandma, wife, sister, aunt, friend.

We were ALL blessed for the gift of her in our lives.

Her life was a reminder to all of us: to work hard. love each other. travel. embrace adventure. dance. laugh. sing. cherish your family and friends…NOW. because you never know when your breath may be your last.

forgive yourself

February 22, 2015

i’m only 53 days late for my new years resolution. and the xmas cards, which for the last few years have become the new years card, this year, officially became the facebook post.

i have a perfectly legitimate excuse. i left the company i’ve worked at for seven years—a job and people i know inside and out—and took a new post at another agency. better title, bigger challenge, a world of new opportunity…and a heaping helping of additional stress… all while juggling parenting, two kids, household chores, and the myriad of annoying little tasks that make up daily life.

yet somehow, the voice inside my head refuses to cut me some slack. i have this nagging sense of guilt. my conscience wags its critical finger, chiding me for all the failures i’ve racked up during this time of transition. cousin xmas gifts—finally in the mail, just shy of march. photo canvases and family albums—a mere figment of my time-zapped imagination. best friend phone call five months overdue thanks to the barrage of homework and nightly bedtime rituals. closet purging—suspended in my room, halfway done in once-organized piles that get a little more messy with each morning’s mad dash to get dressed and out the door. spring cleaning—yeah right. talk to the tornado whose name starts with “L” and ends with “ogan.”

i feel like a wimp for even whining about it. like the “dog ate my homework" excuse, it seems like a cop-out. “sorry, all of you fabulous friends who managed to go see santa (another mandatory ritual i also missed this year), crank out ten batches of cookies AND send out cards on time (hell, at all!)… i just got too busy so i opted out this year. and to make matters more egregious, i refused to confess my failure on facebook to make a point, if only to myself.

a couple friends who are also fighting the good fight, spinning, twirling and treading to get through each day, actually apologized to everyone for not getting cards out in time. this really broke my heart. i completely understood the sentiment… but it just wasn’t right. i know i certainly wasn’t holding a grudge. and i’m sure none of their 500 other frenzied friends weren’t either.

i saw this photo on instagram many months ago and saved it because it just struck a chord. in this day and age, we’re all over-worked, over-stretched, sometimes just plain “over it.”

maybe, just maybe, it’s time we give ourselves a break. maybe it’s not all of your friends on facebook, posting perfect posts and curating catchy captions, that are judging you. maybe it’s actually YOU. trying to live up to an ideal of perfection that is just that: an ideal. a cosmo or stepford or cinderella myth—meant to make you feel bad for failing to live up to the unrealistic standard of perfection you hold yourself to.

i came to the realization recently on report card day. that one time nine years ago when i only had one kid and time to actually read parenting advice, i read an article in new york magazine about “the power (and peril) of praise.” it was both interesting and counterintuitive. my parents focused on grades. “all A’s…or else.” the outcomes were of supreme importance. but no, in this article, the preeminent authorities on the subject gave a very important directive: to set your kids up for success, you have to praise the effort, not the end result.” by focusing only on the outcomes, they fixate on failure, start buying into the narrative that they don’t measure up, find themselves lost, and lack the resilience to push through adversity.

sound familiar?

my resolution for 2015: follow the advice i constantly tell my kids. “as long as you try your best, that’s what counts.” as long as you’re in the moment during the times that matter, that’s true success. not the final grade. or your goal weight. or whatever it is that motivates you—and drives you mad.

all of us overachievers are gunning for the A+: holding ourselves to too high standards, trying to execute flawlessly, berating ourselves for all the things that didn’t go exactly as planned. instead we should be celebrating the little wins, daily victories. a kind gesture. a gorgeous sunrise. a good laugh with an old friend. a perfect hair day. a pat on the back for a job well done. or even, on some days, simply getting up and out of bed when all you want to do is hide under the covers until it’s safe to come out.

and even when you do hit the mark, no matter how high, at the pinnacle of so-called “success,” you may feel like an imposter, a fraud. but guess what? we all do. the truth is: we’re all winging it. “nobody knows what the hell they are doing.”

two cases in point:

the late maya angelou, one of the greatest writers of our time, once said: “i have written 11 books, but each time, i think ‘uh-oh. they’re going to find out now. i’ve run a game on everybody and they’re going to find me out.’”

similarly, david carr, a highly acclaimed reporter who covered the intersection of media and pop culture for the new york times, recently passed away. one of his most famous quotes echoes the sentiment. “i now inhabit a life i don’t deserve, but we all walk this earth feeling we are frauds. the trick is to be grateful and hope the caper doesn’t end soon.”

so just keep pressing on. stop comparing. start living. trust your instincts. be true to you. remember that everyone’s shiny facebook highlight reel isn’t the full picture of what’s real. and gratitude, rather than self-loathing, goes a long way.

most importantly, believe that your best is actually good enough. because it is.

riding the wave

September 24, 2014

i can remember the first time vividly. the blue beneath our feet looked harmless enough, light ripples in the sunlight—not a hint of warning about the turbulence to come.

when the steamy, translucent gates parted, we waded in slowly, gradually ascending the heights until we reached a point of statis. terra firma. level ground. the vibe was chill, relaxed, even inviting—especially for a first timer—but we stuck close together as his eyes enlarged to take in the unfamiliar sights, sounds, and ever so peculiar smells engulfing him.

i thought it would be an amazing adventure: his first bus ride. and when we boarded, his excitement about embarking on such a reviled mode of transportation amazed me. i handed him the crumpled dollar from my purse and did my best to flatten out the bill, smoothing it between my fingers to ensure it would get accepted. he fumbled a bit, hurriedly trying to stuff it into the narrow slot as the bus driver watched blankly. finally, on the third try, he found his mojo, staring intently with delight as george washington’s face got sucked up ever so smoothly into the machine.

“third time’s the charm, bud!”

beaming with a sense of accomplishment and relief, he followed anxiously on my heels to see what was next. we slowly shuffled forward—you know the move: barely lift your feet and slide several inches, right-left, right-left, following behind the person in front of you, close enough to be able to slip into an empty seat if you stumble upon it, but far enough away where no bodily contact happens. ever.

his eyes opened wide as he scanned the strange surroundings. seniors, tweeners, hipsters and homeless people. he was clearly fascinated by the array of colorful commuters he witnessed as we made our way to the middle of the bus. per usual, i scanned the rows for an opening while simultaneously avoiding eye contact of any sort (a skill honed and perfected after years of taking the dank red line subway).

nothing.

he looked up at me nervously.

“don’t worry, honey.” i pulled him close and showed him the shiny silver pole by the center doors. “just hang on to this and it’ll be fine,” i reassured him, intentionally leaving out the sordid images popping into my mind of the dregs of humanity, and all the grimy hands that grasped the metal lifeline throughout the day, even seconds before ours. “bring on the purell,” i muttered under my breath.

“huh?

“it’ll be fun, i can tell!” i articulated loudly, earnestly trying to reinforce his genuine anticipation.

he wrapped both hands around the pole, and readied himself. it was a white-knuckled grip for sure—not because he was scared, but simply due to the fact that he didn’t know what to expect. i, on the other hand, had wrapped my jacket-clad arm around the pole to stabilize myself while avoiding actually touching the cootie-laden structure. (i figured this was an intermediate lesson, a trick i could teach him on ride #3 or 4, after he had successfully completed this maiden voyage.)

the doors slammed shut, and as the bus began to move, it melted my heart to see the corners of his eyes wrinkle up when he smiled—just like mine—a giant grin that radiated happiness, though he was trying to play it cool to blend in with the crusty commuters surrounding us.

for the next few stops, he was in the groove, letting go of his vice grip as he started to get the hang of the ebb and flow. he clearly found comfort knowing the trusty old pole was there if and when he needed it. a safe base. the novice was getting his bearings. my little jedi in transit training.

things were all well and good…until we got to chicago and milwaukee, where the subway and bus stops converge. by the time we had arrived, it was rush hour and the mass of bodies pushed forward when the steamy glass doors swung open. unlike the nirvana of literally minutes before, we were packed in like sardines.

helpless to resist the momentum, we surged forward, slowly shuffling again, only this time with bodies pressed up against our backs. he paused to look up at me with a combination of slight curiosity and sheer terror.

“everybody move back! make way for the passengers boarding the bus!” the driver yelled sternly.

“keep moving until you can’t go any further.”

i nudged him forward until we were firmly wedged between a few fine specimens of the CTA variety, only to find ourselves in the worst possible predicament: caught completely adrift, with neither a pole to hang onto nor a place to lean against.

“oooh this is not good.” i thought to myself as i put a hand on his shoulder, regretting this brilliant maternal decision to subject my kid to the gruesome tortures of mass transit.

the doors struggled shut, then the bus hurtled toward the intersection. the amoeba of people that included us poor souls with no pole morphed with the abrupt forward movement. the rough jerk sent us flying, and we both reached for the invisible bar (also known as thin air). it was futile. with nothing to stabilize, we flailed. i grabbed onto his shirt and kept him (barely) upright.

“mommy, HELP! what am i supposed to do now? i am going to fall if i have nothing to hold onto?”

with each successive stop, he’d tense up, his entire body bracing for the impending wave to hurl him about like a piece of driftwood tossing about at sea. he’d look around, embarrassed, worried. hating the lack of control. dreading the possibility he’d fumble, step on a foot, bump into man, or worst of all fall flat on his face.

i leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “ok buddy. listen to me. you’ve got to stay loose.”

his face contorted. the sweet adoring “i love you, mommy” face was instantly replaced by an indignant “wtf are you talking about, lady??” look. “stay loose when i’m about to dive headfirst into this mass of scary humanity?!”

i smiled reassuringly. “I’m serious,” i said in a gentle voice. “at the next stop, just watch me carefully.”

his response: a hearty huff and eye roll (the latter another lesson he regrettably learned from the best…me).

as we approached the stop, i got into position, exaggerating my movements for dramatic effect. i planted my heels (all 4.5 inches of them) firmly on the ground, as wide as they could get in the 12-inch square block of space i had to work with. i bent my legs slightly and got ready to ride the wave.

he was intrigued now, watching me intently as i assumed the position. i cracked a big smile and winked at him.

the brakes screeched loudly as we pulled up on the next stop, and i rode it out, shifting my body weight subtly back and forth to counter the momentum. he watched in amazement as i maintained my balance, only hesitating once to grab onto his arm when the jostling got a hair too extreme.

the furrow in his brow slowly morphed into a grin of his own.

he whispered into my ear. “that was awesome!”

“i told you bud. i know what i’m talking about. whenever you feel out of control, take a deep breath. plant your feet on the ground. trust yourself. believe you can handle it. and then ride the wave.”

the grin transformed into an ear-to-ear smile. “i wanna try!”

he couldn’t wait test out the technique. as we approached the next stop, i watched his lips recounting the steps, and his body motions working in unison. he was ready.

“look mom! no hands!” he squealed.

and that was it. on an unremarkable wednesday, in the middle of rush hour on the CTA, i taught him an invaluable lesson about surfing…and life.

“whenever you feel out of control, take a deep breath. plant your feet on the ground. trust yourself. believe you can handle it. and then ride the wave.”

we are family

June 15, 2014

father’s day. mother’s day. birthdays. anniversaries. they’re times when we stop to reflect on the special people we’re thankful for.

when i think of “family,” the first thing that comes to mind is MY family: our small, tightly knit unit. we live in a city where extended family is far away and we’re grasping for time and sanity to spend in quiet solitude. because our day-to-day is so chaotic, we strive for time alone: husband, kids, dog (when we had one). the occasional visit from my brother or parents. rarely room or time for more than moments we have to ourselves.

but to my mom, it was altogether different. she was the matriarch, the glue. and she was happiest when our house was ground zero for the parade of eccentric characters that came to “our family” holiday celebrations.

growing up i was always a bit annoyed, even resentful, of the mandates that family functions took precedence over friend parties, sleepovers, and all the “cooler” things that everyone else was doing. nope, we had to high tail it to the family get-togethers and endure the annual “traditions.”

they would come from near and far—two minutes to 200 miles away. the caravan of cars pulled in one by one, and lined up like cordwood, spanning the length of the driveway and half-way down the street. there would be hugs and howls as each family entered…and then the real fun began.

being cornered by the overbearing uncle, who would grill us about politics and life choices, and rant about how everything was better in his native country of germany. being simultaneously told you’ve gained weight while also being scowled at for not having a second helping of every dish my aunts cooked. trying in vein to hide from the camera-happy cousin taking pictures of everyone in their least flattering poses and glam shots of all the food on the table (yes, i’m pretty sure my relatives invented food porn long before instagram was ever a thing). having to sing a cappella christmas carols in front of the entire doting clan in exchange for presents at midnight on christmas eve. and later in the night, in the wee hours of morning, trying to find an open spot on the floor to sleep (one year my cousins and i actually slept in my parents’ walk-in closet!) because all the beds were taken by “the oldies.”

this was our family. huge. loud. eccentric. embarrassing…and yet at the same time, though i didn’t realize it then, endearing.

over the years we certainly had our fair share of family drama, and i remember hiding out in my bedroom with my cousins during these functions, fantasizing about the day we’d start our own “normal” traditions. they’d be shiny and civilized, and most certainly rice-less. we’d make a martha-stewart-worthy spread and wax philosophical about art and culture and other noble pursuits as opposed to gossiping about this shrewd uncle or that ungrateful nephew or the best place to buy bittermelon in china town.

but the further i was from home—going to college, moving to another city and ultimately raising my own family—the more i came to realize that i missed it…and understand why she loved it.

last thanksgiving, we had just the kind of holiday i pictured in my head as kid. perfectly roasted turkey, homemade sage cornbread stuffing, carmelized brussel sprouts and cranberries by candlelight, yoyo ma on the ipod and wine by the fire. it was lovely—180 degrees from the merry, motley crew of family get-togethers growing up.

the festivities went off without a hitch, yet there was still a vague, subtle sense of something missing. certainly not the torment or judgment…but definitely that feeling of something larger than yourself.

connectedness. despite all our crazy idiosyncrasies, the blemishes and black sheep that every family has, we shared a tie—that bonds us all together, when life pulls us apart. for better or worse, we share a past. a history. memories far more enduring than the ephemeral acquaintances that grace our facebook feed.

watching my kids at the rare family function, it struck me that sometimes the thing you’re trying to run away from is the very thing you gravitate toward. or at a minimum, with age and years and hopefully a bit more wisdom, you simply look at in a different light. a more forgiving one.

my black and white notions of what family was supposed to be: they’re softer, warmer, smoother around the edges. like an old cozy sweater, family is comfort, the familiar. no pretense. just there, on the shelf, waiting to wrap you up when you need it.

beast of burden

April 10, 2014

being a working mom involves a lot of schlepping. while i’ve got more than a few cute purses in cool shapes with fancy hardware, for the every day grind, you need girth—a bag big enough for the 13-inch mac, moleskin, munchies and assortment of random crap you cart around “just in case”: pens, printouts, receipts, lip balm, umbrella, kleenex, kitchen sink.

because the term “mom” is generally synonymous with pack mule, you get used to the weight—on your mind and on your shoulders. taking care of messy noses, raspy voices, dirty hands, making plans. carrying it all around because hey, that’s your job.

and speaking of work, sprinkle on some deadlines and the general cadence of meeting and juggling and spinning, and each day brings with it the pressing weight of life’s responsibilities.

recently i have been traveling a lot for work, and while i’ve pretty much got my rituals down to a science (the travel baggie full of pint-sized products, one carry-on, shoes and all, backpack for laptop, and swivel wheels for shuffling through the long airport lines), i had a curious feeling on a cross-country trip late last year that something felt unusual.

i was headed to costa rica for a team summit. my backpack was stuffed with the typical travel gear: computer, power cord, phone charger, moleskin and snacks. the only thing missing was my usual stash of trashy, in-flight gossip mags—no time for distractions as i had a date with a powerpoint deck for the long trip down to the tropics.

it wasn’t an excessively long trek: one layover in houston, a sprint to catch a connection, and finally to our destination…but when i finally got to my hotel that night, my shoulders and back were sore.

“what the hec is in this bag?”

as i mentioned earlier, random items in my bags and purses are not an uncommon occurrence, but i started pulling out the contents to figure out why it felt so heavy.

a pile of change, yup. a brush, ok….wait whu??

i dug deep into the bottom and felt a smooth, cold object. and then another. and then a few smaller ones. i grabbed hold of the big one and pulled it out. it was a rock that my boys had collected on a summer trip to michigan. “it’s a heart for you mommy! it means love.” over the course of our vacation, the boys had picked a random assortment of heart-shaped rocks, plucked from the beach, and lovingly bestowed on me.

when we got back to reality, they proudly set them out on the table, and every morning hounded me to take them to work and put them on my desk as a reminder of our happy place and of them. and every morning, i’d scurry around, getting ready, searching for outfits, barking about being late, and telling them they’d be too heavy to carry in my backpack that day.

apparently they decided, on this particular trip, to take matters into their own hands. i schlepped these rocks four thousand miles down to costa rica and back. and though the burden was heavy, my heart was light.

a couple months later, i went to new york for another work trip. backpack was clean and only the essentials packed. yet again, when i got to my hotel room, a rock had found its way into my bag. only one this time. but one was more than enough.

as a parent, it can sometimes feel like you’re buried under the weight of all that you carry. but it’s also grounding, purpose. it’s bedrock—tangible reminders of love so pure and real that you can’t fathom what life was like without them. when you’re busy carrying on with dinner and homework and activities and obligations, never lose sight of the fact that those smiles and squeezes and random little gifts—and yes, even rocks— are the little things that can carry you through.

boy wonder

February 8, 2014

i always believed i’d have a girl. a little mini-me in pigtails and polka dots, fancy shoes and frilly tutus. we’d bond over all things girlie: hair brushing, nail painting, craft making, cookie baking. but i’d also teach her that sweetness can be strong. she’d learn how to smack a tennis ball, when to speak her mind, how to fish while looking fabulous, how to choose which guy was right.

i had all the life lessons lined up in my mind. waiting for the day that “chloe” arrived.

but fate had something else in mind.

two boys.

princess pipe dreams up in smoke…and in their place, dirty toilets, tackles and tears, tiny hands meticulously dismantling every door hinge and futile attempt at haute décor.

despite the lack of a little girl bestie, i look at my boys and couldn’t possibly imagine loving anyone or anything more. there are different life lessons for them, and they’re sponges, soaking up answers and knowledge—and everything really— with rabid curiosity. yet what amazes me most is not what they can learn from me, but how much i learn from them.

with age comes a certain kind of wisdom…book smarts, even street smarts. but when i look at them, watch from afar, listen behind the door as they whisper under covers and sing in the bathroom, they teach me about the things that really matter. the things you forget when you become a “grown up,” when you put on your polished, professional face and wade into the weighty issues of life and work, politics and the so-called pursuit of happiness.

magic powers and mash-ups

last summer, we took a family trip to six flags great america. i’ll just go on record to say that amusement parks aren’t exactly my thing, but the boys were brimming with excitement so i took one for the team, surrendering to the snaking lines and sweltering heat, muffin tops and fashion emergencies. after all, it was only a day, and there would be funnel cakes, so hey, i’d survive.

inside the gates, we were welcomed by the massive, double decker carousel. we picked out our magical painted ponies and went for a spin. with each revolution, i felt…lighter. i looked at their faces: bright, beaming grins. hands petting the horses’ manes as if they were real, racing like the wind toward an imaginary finish line.

windblown and wistful, we scanned the map for our next destination. bam! the log ride was my jam as a kid, and it was one of the few rides that could accommodate gigandor, the little speed demon, and two oldies whose rollercoaster riding days were long gone.

in order to get to logger’s run, you had to weave through the carnival game village. we sped up our pace to try and fend off the sensory assault: flashing lights, fluorescent colors, life-sized plushies, and shiny, happy people preying on poor gullible kids with dollars to burn and dreams of winning big.

we were almost in the clear, when the little one stopped dead in his tracks. his laser eyes fixated precisely on the target: a superman cape. naturally, being a superhero, he had to have it.

“daddy, i want that superman cape.”

“nope, come on buddy, we gotta get in line so we can go down that giant hill and get splashed! it’s going to be so fun!”

“noooo. PLLLLEEEAAASSE!!! i can win that. i’m going to throw the baseball at those fuzzy guys and win.”

stone face. sheer determination. not a molecule of doubt in his body.

out of pity, guilt and the earnest desire to avoid a meltdown, daddy caved and pulled out his wallet. i mean, all of us wise folks know that the cute, fuzzy hair on the smiling clowns, goading young passers-by on, exists only to cover the gaping chasm between one target and the next. the poor little guy didn’t have a chance.

ok. 5 dollars. 6 balls. time to win the kid a cape. he’d let the boy toss a couple for good measure, then step in to save to day…

but the little man had other plans. his tiny hands grabbed a baseball.

aim. wind up. toss. miss.

the ball tore through the tufts of hair, hit the back wall, and plummeted like a lead balloon.

aim. wind up. toss. miss.

aim. wind up. here we go again.

my husband started to sweat. he grabbed two balls to stop the impending catastrophe.

“let me try, bud.”

aim. wind up. toss. miss. “shit! i mean shoot!”

“NOW ME!” bright-eyed. total belief.

aim. wind up. toss. HIT!!!

“DING! DING! DING! we have a winner!”

and just like that, our four-year-old boy wonder claimed what was rightfully his.

we were giddy…and in shock. here we were, convinced he’d fail, sure that we’d have to swoop in, protect him from the disappointment, fill the inevitable void he’d experience by trying, then losing. and there he was, convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he’d emerge victorious. and he did.

that belief. in magic. in superpowers. in good trumping evil. that unwavering belief in himself.

it was awe-inspiring. i marvel at these boys and their xrays eyes. they see beneath the surface, beyond the solid lines and concrete objects. rocks are magic amulets or heart-shaped tokens of their love. dandelions are bouquets and wishes that come true. legos and marbles and feathers and coins are a “circus exercise place with spinning rides” because duh, wouldn’t that be cool.

their toy boxes are disaster, and when they play, they dump the entire contents of mismatched game pieces, stuffed animals and fake food onto the floor. i flinch, and groan, and try to stifle the nagging and finger-wagging about cleaning up your room. and when i’m called back for the grand reveal, it’s always a delicious mash-up, an original masterpiece born straight from their imaginations—that looks nothing like the picture on the box.

they speak their own language. make up their own rules. believe they can do anything.

it made me ponder when exactly the moment is when we lose that in ourselves. when did self-doubt and cynicism stain our view of the world and what was possible? was it the handslap you got when you dared to color outside the lines? was it at school or a first job? was it a trauma or tragedy? or was it not a moment at all—but rather a slow and steady erosion of your sense of wonder?

you need only watch the news or step outside your door to find the world is a rough, harsh place. and rules and structure and boxes and cubes will be there to keep you in line. but these boys remind me to see the other side, to look for it.

they sink their teeth into donuts with the same gusto that they do life—without the accompanying guilt, self-consciousness or fear of what others will think. while we try to run from life, they run, full throttle, toward it. faster than a speeding bullet, finding magic in moments and things that we miss.

it’s not just silly naivete’. it’s wisdom beyond their years. it’s the belief—no the absolute certainty—that everything’s gonna be alright.

it’s that feeling of swinging when your legs reach the peak. zero gravity for a split second before you plunge back down. or running full throttle down a sand dune. nothing but you and the air and your breath and your legs, pushing you forward with reckless abandon. no fear. no doubt. no purpose other than to feel the sand beneath your toes. it’s that place you’re transported to—familiar, safe, like home—when you sit with friends and talk in strange dialects and laugh until your sides hurt at the insane world, at each other, at yourself. it’s the thing we should hold onto when all roads lead to logic and reason. it’s laughter, lightness, letting go.

i teach. but these boys—and their wonder—remind me how much i have yet to un-learn.

the glamorous life

November 17, 2013

“how do you find the time?”

“for what?”

“working full time. being a mom. eating. shopping. working out. writing.”

“seriously?!” disbelief. “umm…i don’t,” i said. “it’s literally a constant frenzy from one minute to the next.”

eye roll. “come on. you make it look so easy.”

easy. right… within the span of a week, i had washed and folded 6 loads of laundry, woke up at 4am to a sick kid and a pile of projectile vomit that i literally caught in my hands, got stuck in a monsoon with no umbrella running from the office to the bus to the car to go to school for pick up, only to be the last mom there, enduring the glare from a crusty teacher and the sad face staring back at me asking “why were you late?” i racked my brain to remember algebra and geometry theorems to help with math homework, and lectured my eldest on hygiene fouls and the importance of changing your underwear every day (after having noticed only a few pairs in the mountains of said laundry). i broke up a fight over snakes that i had won for the boys playing whack a mole, and another grapple over what show to watch, and one about who gets to sit “in the middle” chair at the dining table, and yelled at both of them every morning for five days straight about moving like snails in the race to get ready for school.

but every day, when i get to work, i put on my pumps and pull it together. before i had kids, i vowed to try to retain my sense of identity. buttoned up. accessorized. harmonized. i’m a libra after all. i’d strike a perfect balance between mom and maven. work and werq.

but behind the scenes, it’s mostly mayhem. a tight rope act. spinning plates. at any given moment, the ruse of control can give way to chaos. and the oft fortuitous avoidance of disaster turns into a head-on collision of the all-too-common kind.

a couple weeks ago, it was my halloween horror story. the costumes were bought. the pumpkins were out. the trick or treating protocol reviewed. we were ready to go. but a busy work week and an all-nighter the day before distracted me enough to cause the debacle. halloween morning, pulling up to the kiss and ride, i see yoda and spiderman, bat man and a lady bug traversing the crosswalk. i was struck by the sinking realization that i had forgotten to dress him up in costume for the pre-k parade.

it was soul-crushing. an epic mommy #fail.

we managed to save the day, scrambling back home to pick up the scooby costume just in time for the pre-school procession. he was no worse for the wear, but the damage in my mind was done. chalk that one up as a spinning plate officially shattered.

i licked my wounds for a couple days, and then picked up the pieces and re-commenced the spinning.

it may look shiny on the outside, but truth be told, it’s also a grind. when you’re a parent, there is a crazy duality to every day that you can’t really comprehend unless you’re living it. stolen moments of glam are outweighed by grubby hands and gooey messes. it’s exhausting, exciting, enriching, enraging, energizing, emotional, enduring—an endless amount of effort.

one thing it definitely is not: easy.

try as you might, you can’t do it all. balls will drop. events may be missed. things will be forgotten. and striving for perfection or balance will set you up to fail. between being there for everyone and trying to salvage a sliver of yourself, something’s gotta give.

but the flipside is that somehow, some way, you discover a capacity within yourself that you never knew you had. you find an extra ounce of energy despite a few hours less of sleep. you discover an untapped well of love that expands though you feel like you’re running on empty.

it’s not easy. but you embrace it. because you know it’s not just something. it’s everything.

bright shiny objects

September 12, 2013

it was a typical sunday evening. we had just settled in from a long day of workouts, errands, and random household chores. the kids were huddled up on the couch, eyes scanning the rectangular screen, fingers rapidly pressing and swiping, and their intent faces illuminated by the bluish glow shining up from their laps. tablet time.

“dinner’s almost ready guys! can you please turn that off and wash your hands.”

crickets.

“excuse me! did you hear what i just said?”

nada. they didn’t even flinch.

as i watched them, the scene from afar was heart-warming. the two brothers, lately more sparring partners than adoring siblings, were giggling, smiling, admiring each others’ mastery of the ginsu knife swipe on “fruit ninja.”

but their utter entrancement with the device—and complete lack of acknowledgement of me—were starting to bug.

“hey, you guys need to listen to mommy!” my husband said sternly, looking back at me to exchange eye-rolls before heading out the front door to take out the trash.

“ok. 5 more minutes, PLEASE!! i just need to get to the next level.”

ugh. my will to fight was sucked up in the puffs of steam rising from the medley of pots and pans on the stove, so i gave in.

“fine…but you better turn it off as soon as your time is up.”

2 minutes later, daddy returned, flinging the door open and bursting in with a huge, cheshire cat grin on his face.

“what the…”

his hands were cupped and loosely pressed together.

“GUESS WHAT I’VE GOT, BOYS!”

he was giddy with excitement.

the commotion jarred the zombies out of their trance, and they looked up in unison to see what the surprise was.

he moved his hands closer and we leaned in.

and then we saw it. the bright, green glow flashing intermittently in his hands.

a firefly!

“WHOA! COOL!” the boys squealed as they watched the magic bug light up.

city fireflies are few and far between—in fact it had been decades since i had seen one—so despite my distaste for bugs in general, i too was mesmerized by the light.

i can remember vividly spending hours catching fireflies in my front yard on a late summer evening at dusk. i was around my son’s age, 8 or 9. my brother and i, and the neighborhood twins, were in the front driveway playing four square (old school—you know, the kind with an actual red ball).

as the sun began to set and the daylight dimmed, we started to notice green flickers of light hovering above the lawn. first a few, and then more. it was a spectacle. magic. and we ran into the grass to see if we could catch them.

they weren’t afraid. they weren’t elusive. they buzzed around with no clear direction, almost beckoning our eager hands to take hold. we’d reach out and snatch one—glowing life and light—cupped gently in the palm of our hands…just like my husband’s.

i thought of that summer night with nostalgia and longing…for carefree times and endless days and simple pleasures.

our kids are growing up in a different world. a digital world. and technology has, in many ways, brought “the world” into their hands. facts, knowledge, information, all at their fingertips.

and the frenzy over every new device— most recently the new “magical” iphone 5S—has become human nature for many of us. but i read a provocative, and in my opinion quite profound, article in FastCoDesign about a recent apple commercial that expressed something that i’ve been feeling since the 4, 4S and 5 releases.

everyone is telling me i should care. every time a new model, software version or operating system rolls out, i’m supposed to pant with anticipation for the next new shiny thing. the commercial itself heralds the proclamation:

“this is it. this is what matters. the experience of a product.”

as the author mark wilson writes, "Watch the ad closely for me. As we’re told that products are what matter, we see a series of shots in which people actively turn away from life to engage with their technology…. In what should be a warm, humanizing montage, people are constantly directing their attention away from one another and the real, panoramic world to soak in pixels."

no doubt technology has transformed life as we know it…and in many mind-blowing ways for the better. but don’t be fooled by the bright, shiny glow. no device can ever replace the feeling of sun on your skin, the twinkle in your kids’ eyes, sparkles of light dancing on the water.

it’s up to us to carve out time, “catch fireflies,” keep some moments sacred, devoid of devices and things that impede rather than enhance our experience of life. for our kids—and ourselves—these are the bright, shiny objects we should seek and hold precious. they are the ones filled with magic light that sinks into your soul and lingers long after you let go.