30 years later

I stood outside my house today watching my not so little bundle of joy flitting back and forth between trike rides and water play. I felt the sweat dripping off my forehead which comes from mowing an entire front and back (too big) yard. I stood motionless listening to the wind whipping through the trees. Lately every emotion brings me to an utter stop. I wonder if I will ever feel this exact way again. I am on the move. In a moment I may disappear. This may disappear.

A black Mercedes drove up and slowed way down. I am used to this. My FOR SALE sign begs that people slow down. But this time it was different. the car slowed down and stopped in front of my neighbor's house. I extracted myself from my emotions and made sure I could lay eyes upon my little girl. Then the engine cut out.

A blonde haired woman stepped out. "I hope you don't mind," she stated. "I grew up in this house. I just want to snap a few pictures."

I wished later that I had asked her name because our interaction was instantaneously friendly.

"Wow," I stated, "how long has it been?"

"I grew up here, moved out when I went to college, oh about 30 years ago."

30 years ago, I thought? That was just about the time that my parents moved me into this town. I immediately was drawn to this ironic stranger. We spoke about remodels, driveways, neighborhood kids, rotten porches, bathrooms,  grass, history. I didn't want to let her go. She was a part of me. She had grown up in my bestest neighbor's house and knew so much about my house and it's surroundings. I was mesmerized.

"Well, thanks so much," she called out when she finally made it back to her car. "Good luck with your move."

This is what I needed. I needed to meet her. I needed to watch her drive slowly down the street and then stop and get out to take a picture of her childhood home. A sense of relief washed over me. I connected to my house's history. She connected to her neighborhood's future. It was a pure moment. In that moment, I released my home. I released my hold.

I imagine that one day (in my 60s) I will drive down North 34th, slow down, get out, apologize and take a couple snapshots. I am hopeful that there will be someone outside willing to chat about histories and futures.

My Sincerest, To My Bestest Neighbor Ever.

Thank you for the willingness. Thank you for the conversation. Thank you for the afternoon sidewalk bicycle chats. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for the smiles. Thank you for the honesty and the understanding. Thank you for holding my children. Thank  you for ignoring my children. Thank you for your intelligence and your supportive teaching. Thank you for the parties. Thank you for the late night beer. Thank you for your cheerfulness and your realism. Thank you for your phone number and the key to your house. Thank you for moving your car for basketball championships. Thank you for the early morning commitment (even when I wasn't able to follow through). Thank you for the home baked warm cookies. Thank you for the spontaneous play dates. Thank you for the sidewalk chalk. Thank you for the warm and caring, genuine person that your are. I will miss our greetings - our comings and goings. I will miss sharing our driveway. I will miss sharing our kids. I will miss your curly spunky hair. I will miss laughing with you. I will miss our summers. I will miss your routines. Most of all though, I will miss you. You are a dear friend. Thank you.

I hold the keys.

As the key turned in the lock the door opened to reveal a cold and vacant house. Every visible nail hole, the picture shadows, all of the awful forest green molding, the fancy floral curtains, each stain in the carpet, the bright blue paint, the knob and tube wiring, the lack of ventilation in the bathroom, the quaint original kitchen, the scary unfinished basement, the painted white brick fireplace and the original window panes all called out to me. The day was, June 5, 2004. It was the day we closed and gained access to our new lovely house. I worked tirelessly scrapping and sanding the forest green paint. My hands broke and cracked. I picked out a nice whispering white paint and slowly painted every foot of molding in our house. The place seemed brighter. My Love and I visited every light fixture store within the state and still had a hard time choosing the right fixtures. Rooms were painted. Ventilation was installed in the bathroom and kitchen. The curtains were taken down. The carpet was removed. The brick fireplace was sanded down and tiled over. Our electrician pulled out 300 feet of knob and tube wiring. Our kitchen was remolded. Our basement renovated. More lately we have installed a new bathroom, gutted our possessions, cleaned our roof, painted the exterior of our house, replaced our front porch and repainted all the molding. My yard will be saved for a different post. My hands are still broken and cracked.

Most notably though, we have lived. We have lived in our home for 8 years. It is our first home. We have loved and we have cried in this home. Both kids were brought from the hospital to this home. This home has hosted countless parties and has entertained friends and family. This home has kept us dry and safe. This home has awaken us with its creeks and groans and has rocked us back to sleep. This home has been witness to our happiest moments and to our most regrettable moments. Our home holds us in time and in space. It grounds us to our community, to our family and to our memories. Living is not easy. We have struggled with our home and it has struggled with us.

And now we are about to part ways. How is this properly done? I am not sure. Tonight I am wishing my home could talk. We could laugh about the dust and the clutter and ponder the more significant topic of relocation. After May 25th my home will cease to be mine. I will never enter this house again. We will never again commiserate together. It will melt into the background for me. It will become someone else's home. I dont think I am ready.

How do you properly say, good-bye to a house?  Anyone out there care to comment?

Limbo Land. Too Many Questions. Not Enough Answers.

So it is a new year. A year that will be better (different?) than the next.

Here I am, 12 months later. I wonder if there has been any growth? Any forward movement? Biologically, my kids are one year older. My relationship with My Love is one year longer. My kitty has stopped biting. My house has turned 100 years old. My hair has been growing. There have been really fun moments. There have been really sad moments. There have been really angry moments. There have been really overwhelming moments. There have been really loving moments.

But what does this all mean for me? It seems a bit ironic (is this the right word?) that I started writing in April. My son turns seven (7!!) in two weeks. What a peculiar month. Not winter - spring wants to begin, but there always has to be something holding it back. Limbo land. March has blown it's winds. April tries so hard.

I remember laying in bed with my almost seven year old when he was just a newborn. Both of us falling asleep right after eating. Lying in any position - just tyring to get the sleep that our bodies were due. I would wake sooner and gaze out our window. Stuck in my position until he woke I would dream about my yard and what I wanted to accomplish. The weeds needed pulling. There were blooms that I was missing. I longed to feel the wind that the trees were experiencing. But I stayed put. Allowed him to wake naturally. He ate again and again we were plunged into a deep sleep. Waking only to dream and eat. I missed an entire season. I think now, that is why Spring is so important to me. I don't want to miss another one. But really what did I miss? So much had been gained, right?

So here I am. Happy spring. Happy writing. Happy growing. The catch is, however - I am hard pressed to come up with any non-biological growth. Where are my dreams tonight? What do I yearn for? Has the moment become too big? Have a stopped looking beyond it? There should be goals, right? I yearn for dissatification. I need to pry the bodies off of me and get up, right?

Limbo land. I am an imperfect soul. I want to grow. I want to do right. I want to expereince the joy that happens spontaneously - but I also dont want to lose track of the weeds. I think I have lost track. How do I envelop both?

What's In A Name

How does a nickname find you? Does it lurk behind the shadows waiting to watch your personality unfold itself? Is it given to you at birth? Do you earn it? Does the name bring respect or give you an embarrassing (almost awkward) feeling? Can you name yourself? Does it become you? Is it you?

A true nickname is given out of love. A deep down swell of love. A love that cannot be measured or calculated or even for that matter explained. It comes from history, baggage, a knowing. It comes from a place that cannot ever be uttered. The caller feels it. The receiver understands it. Neither, however, reflect upon it. It is true. Both bow to it. There is an identity. And if born out of love, it is a true identity. Reverence from the name caller. Submission on the part of the receiver. Never spoken aloud. A friendship. A bond. An enchanted space that others may never find.

What's in a name?


UPDATED: March 2014

A Room of Their Own

My kids harass each other every day by calling each other specific nicknames that the other despises. I get annoyed and sometimes come to one of their defenses......
After being outside for the better half of the day Hayden was in the street kicking a soccer ball and Clara was busying with a few neighborhood friends painting and chalking up the sidewalk.
Hayden called out to Clara a couple of times trying to get her attention. He desperately wanted to show her a soccer trick. She was not giving him the time of day.
He then called out, "Clare!" She immediately stopped what she was doing and came running to his side.
In this instant I understood sibling rivalry in all its greatness. A deep , sometimes abysmal, bond that carries ultimate truths mixed with a ton of baggage. A room where no one else is welcomed -- not even parents.
The next time I hear them harassing each other, calling each other by these silly nicknames I will smile, ignore their insults and walk out of their room.

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

The clock ticked as the raindrops fell, I wondered aloud if I would ever get to sleep. The room was too hot. My feet too cold. I had charted My Love's sleep cycles at least twice through. I thought I had heard a faint cry - a dream perhaps? My ears kept listening. Words and actions jumbled together creating a delusional, fitful state. I had to pee. Back in bed, pillow fluffed, covers arranged, I closed my eyes and tried to feel the sleep. The clocked ticked and the raindrops fell. My ears were the first to wake. My feet were second. My mouth third. "$&^#*@&^!," I whispered (intentionally loud enough to wake my slumbering Love). Will I ever get any sleep? The cries took me down the hall into a bedroom that seemed too dark, too hot. I shuffled around to find my bundle of joy. Did you have a bad dream? Do you have to pee? Do you want to listen to your music? I cries stopped as fast as they started and I was left standing over a dozing child.

Back in bed I made it known that I had not slept a wink. My Love profusely informed me that I was wrong and that I had been keeping him awake with my snores. True anger swept over my entire being. The clock ticked and the rain finally stopped. My mind bent itself around the smell of coffee. At least I had coffee. I charted a few more of My Love's sleep cycles and then I was falling, falling, falling fast asleep. The dawn came to early when I was honestly informed that it was my turn to go get our wonderful bundle of joy. Remembering that I had been out running the morning prior, I tried to hold my tongue (so hard for me between the hours of 11pm and 6am) as I begrudgingly walked down the hall into our daughter's bedroom.

"Hi, Mom. Do you want to play?"
"Yes, I want to play."

The clock ticked, the rain started to fall  and we played until the rest of the house woke.  My eyes were heavy when I finally served breakfast. I'll sleep when I'm dead, I thought. In the meantime, a hot shower, a hug and a few cups of coffee will probably do the trick. Thankfully My Love knows how to forgive and I know how to forget so we move on - until the next night. ***



***I'm not an insomniac. I really sleep quite well. It's when sleep can't seem to find me that I get pretty irritated. Be glad you are not My Love.