They were gathered around his bed and spilling out of his room. We passed meal carts, laundry rollers and many, many strangers. The girls never blinked. They endured passing through the bracing wind into the suffocating, unfiltered heat and stale air of the building, to the oily air in the elevator all the while wearing their Adirondack bundles. They all but curtsied at the aides and nurses they were introduced to, never requiring us to cajole them. It became clear that they were as tuned in as we were that this trip needed to go smoothly, for someone.

We shuffled into the room, the dingy curtain marking the space between roommates hanging limply inches from him as he lay prone in bed, laboring. Finley went completely rigid, unwilling and unable to enter. “No, want to. No want to be in the room. Right now, no. Please no take me in the room. I want to stay now in the hall. Not. In. The. Room.” I honored her wish, but tried a few different ways of getting her in. Nothing doing.

Ave floated, content to perch at his feet and then flit to the hallway to talk to whoever might be out there, family or not. Finley ultimately assumed a position outside the room, gratefully entering the arms of whichever of us was standing outside. No one pushed, some universal trigger had been loosed and it was simply accepted that Fin was feeling what was happening in the room more keenly than any of the rest of us. I went to stand with Briar and found her completely independent. She stood at his bedside beaming. There was literally a light radiating from her.

“It’s ok. You are ok. We are here. We can stay. You are here and you are good, you are so good. And I can stay or I can come back, but right now we are together.” I stood rapt, her voice assuming a cadence beyond her years, the rhythm of her words soothing us all, while his one good eye watched her. I touched her shoulder, but she was undeterred. “Briar,” I whispered. She turned to me, her pale blue eyes meeting mine, and she smiled. “Are you ok, honey?” I asked. Her eyebrows furrowed as if she pitied me my confusion. “Yes, mama. I am just being with him,” and with that she turned back to him. “I am still here, right with you.”

I collapsed inside myself as I watched Briar draw from a well I never knew she had. She is so much more than sweet. Sitting at the bedside of a man her baby sister knew was dying, she offered everything inside herself and more. I came face to face with more emotional reserves in her than I have and I was not surprised, which shocked me. Right up until the moment we were zipping our coats, she stayed with him. Later, talking to her sister she said, “Ave, don’t worry, just let him be 63 in your mind forever.”

I think that on some level, Briar will forever be 6 in my mind, honoring the life of a 96 year old and accompanying him through one leg of his passing.

Grief shared is half grief; joy shared is double.

~Honduran Proverb

I snickered the other day, but Sean’s banishment from the bath routine should have been a clue. I do got more time now, but on the other side my eviction will be more verbal, coming in clearly articulated demands for distance rather than in nuanced turns and blushes. I did not expect to be refereeing this kind of sibling cruelty so early. I’d been prepared to rail against Teen Beat and Seventeen, never imagining that “ugly” and “dumb” would come at 6, 4 and 2. My plans to battle image and confidence are foiled as I realize how ill prepared I am.

Consecutive nights of sending someone to bed early are taking their toll. Last night, after everyone was tucked in and on their way to the land of nod I made my rounds. The absence of baby is less evident at night, the jagged lines of their legs and the lush curve of their lips are vulnerable and mine. No attitude, no questioning, just my sleeping babies. I stood at the edge of her bed, a primal keening clamoring against my insides as I imagined scooping her in my arms and murmuring away the reproachments of earlier.

I long to end each day with everyone having been successful. Sometimes I wonder if I want it for myself, to avoid the guilt, or if I want it for them to avoid the hurt and embarrassment. I know this growing up gig can’t come without punishment and I know it is nearly upon us. As I watch them sleep I keep my arms to my sides and let my lips hover just above their skin. I whisper over and over again how much I love them. I promise to have the strength to hold up my end of the bargain so that I can prepare them for the lives they have ahead of them.

I wish it were easier, I wish I were better at it, but most of all, I hope they’ll know how hard I tried.

The night brought the usual interruptions—a night terror for Briar, trip to the bathroom from Ave and the molar-growing mews that have had Fin in our bed every night this summer. Each time I tapped Sean’s shoulder and pled for him to go. He did, but still the sleep escaped, my ears straining to hear even as my sinuses bellowed, “put your head down or we’ll explode.” I buried my face in the cool folds of my pillow and willed myself to sleep.

Not slipping from my bed to pad through each room, making the rounds unbidden, I fell into the dreams of a daughter. Maybe it was not answering their calls, whatever it was, I spent the night trying to save my mom. Foggy corridors with her standing just beyond my reach peppered with face-to-face encounters where I was faced with her certain death if I didn’t act. I twisted in my sheets, calling for help to get her to Boston, pleading for her heart not to succumb to the vines ensnaring it in a dark place where it threatened to stop beating. I lost my foot, water sluiced over my hands, I lost my grip and shot past windows and faces.

Help me.

Please.

I can’t.

Mom.

I woke as sunlight kissed my face. The pages of my dream came rushing back and I shook my head. Silence. The bed was empty. No babies. No Sean. No mom. I listened, finally exhaling as I heard the familiar sounds of Saturday morning. My body slipped back into the sheets and I closed my eyes. Mom, daughter, wife, sister, dreamer. Me. I drifted back to sleep and there was nothing but soft indigo as I melted into peace.

The light changed and I opened my eyes to see Fin. She was watching me, scanning my face to decipher why I hadn’t woken yet. I blinked and whispered, “Good morning.” I watched her face, tiny dimples appearing over her eyebrows as she continued to pore over my face. I waited until she said, “I love you mom. I love you to better.”

Night and day collided. The daggers hit my heart.

There may not be fixing or saving, but I do believe in loving to some kind of better.

*

It is.

Every decision I make is one more than I should. I need to be still, have little to no investment in the way the day-to-day minutia gets sorted out and the answer, as Sean has lectured into my head is, “probably shouldn’t.” I need to be smarter because as much as I adore many of the people that fit this group, I am hoping to behave myself into not being a member.

Blogging has been a part of my life for 6 years. I remember the first time an entry of mine was posted in a BlogHer column (of course it was on deleting a post…blush) I remember taking my last baby to my first BlogHer

I want to go to NYC and hug so many special people, maybe not like this, but close.

I want to prove to my daughters that I made the sacrifices to be able to go. I want to show Sean and the rest of my family that I understand how serious my injury is/was and that I will do what it takes. I want to deserve it and be ready for it.

I want to be at BlogHer. I will wear shoes. They won’t be running shoes, as I will not run for Tanner though I have a tutu and everything. They will not be stilletos and I will not shop til I drop, for chances are I’d truly drop.

But there will be something on my feet, which are pointed directly toward BlogHer.

So here’s to resting and making it, with my family’s blessing, to BlogHer 1 week from today! Pardon me if I end up being the slow walker in the Hilton. Stop and walk with me, I’ll share a story to make it worth your while.

Biting back tears and a scream I told the girls we’d be going to the gym to run around. It is not an exaggeration that I needed this excursion to remedy way more than 60 minutes of anything had any hope of doing. The girls gleefully scampered about gathering shoes, coats and wondering if they’d need swimmies, jump ropes or backpacks. “It’s just a gym, girls,” I said as I dug around for pants. “Is there a playground? Or a pool? Or toys?” the big girls asked. “Go a’mimmin, mama? Go a’mimming in da water?” Fin asked hopefully.

I took a deep breath, promised myself that once we got there they’d be instantly transformed into enthusiastic little gym-runners. Fifteen minutes later we walked into the gym and the walls shook with the sound of teen age boys bouncing basketballs. Briar’s face was devoid of all color, Ave was slumping into a pre-tantrum crouch, Fin’s eyes were darting around for a place to hide and Sean’s face clearly said, “This is a colossal failure.” My heart sank.

“Come on girls, let’s go play,” I chirped. Briar began to cry and Ave said she didn’t want to. “I don’t think they can be here, Amanda,” Sean said to me in a stage whisper. I began to ask why but yelped instead as a cart of balls careened my way. Sean ducked out the door and the girls followed. We were standing in the hallway, a heap of forlornness, frustration and panic. When a friend walked by and mentioned she was going to the “family yoga class” I almost jumped into her arms.

Family yoga! Perfect! I dragged the girls and Sean to the room. We removed our shoes, grabbed mats and I quietly chanted, “Please be good, please be good.” The instructor was an easy going mid-30 something woman who was completely undeterred by the tumbling, squealing and just-shy-of-chaos shenanigans of the kids. After a few minutes she began leading us in simple poses. Briar, back straight, mouth set with determination and eyes locked on the instructor, took to it like a fish to water. Ave wove in and out of willingness and insubordination. And then there was Finley.

Sprinting in circles, scaling my prone form, darting to the equipment room, clutching barbells and declaring, “Missed you, love you soooo much, I do.” Sean maintained an uncharacteristic calmness, this sort of public misbehaving usually sends him reeling. I lowered my head and took a deep breath as she lead us into balasana. Briar and I bowed obediently and blissfully as Fin and Ave continued to demonstrate flagging interest.

No one ever turned a judgemental eye, so when Sean stowed his mat and shepherded the little girls out it was more preemptive that reactionary. Briar and I carried on with driven faces. My leg trembled as I stood in tree pose, Briar to my right, giggling but standing tall and steady, was radiant. “Look at Briar doing Vrksasana. Great job, Briar.” The praise lengthened her spine and I could literally feel the pride coming from her taut little person.

I glanced sideways to search for Sean and the little girls outside, but saw nothing, so I returned to the positions. Ten minutes of unmitigated oblivion followed as I allowed myself to release the responsibility, worry and preoccupation of dinner, activities and guilt. Guilt. Gone. Briar and I moved our mats to prepare for the close of the class— a song and a time of reflection.

Savasana and Israel Kamakawiwo’Ole. Our instructor asked us to relax and move into Savasana (corpse pose). “Sometimes kids want to cuddle on mom or dad’s chest during this move, that’s fine.” I thought maybe Briar would, instead she took a very studious approach, focused entirely on our instructor, I reached my hand out and as it touched hers, she loosened her fingers and laced them within mine.

Well I see trees of green and
Red roses too,
I’ll watch them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself

My body loosened, my fingertips traced the surface of Briar’s hand. My eyes burned as I found my way back to Briar, my firstborn. My amazing first daughter that took my breath more than five years ago, lay beside me enjoying an experience with me in a way no other person ever has before. Muscles tested, then rested, and engage, then released, our hands touching.

“Take a deep breath. Trust that you are safe. That you are loved. Feel the light of life, joy and love around you.”

I see friends shaking hands
Saying, “How do you do?”
They’re really saying, I…I love you
I hear babies cry and I watch them grow,

Tears coursed down my face. I walked down the aisle on a hot June afternoon 15 months before Briar was born, Sean waiting beneath a pergola, as three dear friends sang Israel Kamakawiwo’Ole’s version of ”Somewhere over the Rainbow.” My ears quickly filled with tears as Briar’s little fingers squeezed mine. A peaceful, enduring bridge between parent and child. Each breath I drew was ragged and relieved, a love and peace as pure as anything I’ve ever felt.

On a Friday night at the YMCA I rediscovered  my center and my meaning.

The light within me honors the light in you.

My family, my light.

Namaste.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Strange how conditioned we are to create patterns and routines, to transform doing to repeating, rather than experiencing or living. Between the rigors of work, inconsistencies of schedules for parties and open houses, and technical hurdles, I’ve not been writing. I could, but I let myself slip into this step 1, step 2, step 3 and repeat sort of monotony.

*****

Finley is singing, literally if she is awake she is either singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star or the Alphabet Song. She is the echo of every child that has gone before her, suspended for this brief moment in slurred words, skipped letters and uninhibited and tireless repetition. Don’t get me wrong, the way she does it, the curve of her jawline as she lifts her head to sing louder and the way she sets one foot in front of the other while cocking her head, these are pure Fin.

I am more aware today, as I hoss myself out of the unforgivable morass of apathy, that tomorrow, or soon thereafter, this will be over. My third daughter, my only Fin, my final performance of this chapter. Twinkle Twinkle into ABCs into “I wuh-ya mommy.” It is the tattered page I’ll turn to years ahead when she no longer wakes to sing to me.

I am listening, and knowing that I will not always remember unguided, I am writing. I am chronicling these moments of Christmas magic.

*****

I realize unforgivable seems a harsh word, but here it is, whether it’s lifting another spoonful of food you know you shouldn’t be eating, taking another monstrous drag off the cigarette you swore you wouldn’t smoke, or uttering aloud the criticism of your spouse you swore you’d keep quiet, at some point it is indeed unforgivable.

Happiness is a choice is more than a line on a tshirt. It’s just this one life we get. There isn’t a day in it that ever gets experienced in exactly the same way. We must remember to do what we hope, to stay true to aiming for the life that we want, the love, the memories whatever it is.

It is our choice.

It is our price to pay if we don’t.

Who is trying to sing to you right now?

Whose arms did you wiggle out of to do the dishes?

Go listen, kiss and live.

It’s just this one time, make it count.

*****

Believe