I was wrong.

As is almost always the case when I leap to conclusions about how something in parenting is going to be, Finley proved me completely wrong. Since the first time she donned pjs instead of a nightgown she has insisted on buttoning the shirt herself. These little girl pajamas do not come with buttons made for little fingers. Tiny, fragile and often to too small to stay fastened within the button holes, the buttons wiggle out from between her pink little digits. So often I’ve waited, expecting frustration and defeat.

Instead she pops her little face up, the sheen of bath time still present, and she says, “I can do it.” Her tone is calming, reassuring and matter-of-fact. I sit back and watch, beyond impressed that she has chosen this thing to do herself and grateful that I haven’t steamrolled past her willingness to keep going and just done it myself. The buttons don’t all come easy, sometimes she realizes that she has gotten off course and that the top is gaping, other times she decides she’d like to start at the top and not the bottom. Her ability to reset and begin anew with undiluted focus and optimism can make my cheeks burn.

How many times a day do I puff up my cheeks and expel a massive whoosh of disappointed, annoyed breath? How often do I let the naysaying in my own mind prevent me from conquering that which only seems impossible? Lately I’ve taken to using this buttoning time to reflect on how much I can do if I just harness a little bit of Fin’s attitude of “I can’t not do this.” I think that as I store memories of her like this, I’d like to try and offer her a few of her own where she sees me smiling and working through until I get it right.

I’ve always been a dreamer, prone to joy or weeping depending upon my mood. The other day a mist was sitting low all over town. It kept pulling my attention until finally I gave into it and pulled over. Where I stopped was right next to the office I went for my prenatal visits with Briar, now converted to an office of some sort. My eyes misted as I traveled back to those weeks and months anticipating becoming a mom.

I find myself suspended between then and one day a lot lately. I don’t discourage these flights of imagination, but I am understanding as I experience more and more loss, that it is in this space with mist on either side that I must make my way. The present, steeped in anticipation and hope and dusted with just enough regret to keep me honest, is my place.

It’s strange feeling tethered just out of reach of dreaming, but then I am reminded how quickly now becomes before—how close sorrow and bliss truly are. Today, as we pause to give thanks, I am embracing each of my worlds and revering the short time between hope and memory.

Peace to you and yours.

Sean saw me unraveling and suggested a run. “I’ll handle stories and bedtime. You, just go, clear your head and have some time to yourself.” After the protesting, which I seem incapable of forgoing, I bundled up for a run and slapped a leash on the dog. Walking down our driveway I felt my tension descend, sliding off my shoulders and away from me. As we turned the corner up the dark hill I smiled.

Six houses later I screamed. Big, stupid, big, barking dog. He was not on a leash, not confined by a fence and he just kept coming. I tried to be brave, yelled at him to go, but he loped toward us, hackles up and his barking growing meaner and meaner. I called out to him to go home as we walked slowly backwards towards home defeat mounting. When I walked in the house Sean looked at me crestfallen, “That was like 6 minutes.” He walked down the upstairs hallway with the girls.

I listened as he did bedtime. Other nights I might’ve gone up, but I was bone weary. I felt resentment build as the day slipped away and I stayed mired in my inability to gain any traction. Later, knowing he had to be out of the house by 6am, he told me he was going to bed. “I’ll be right up,” I whispered. I sat feeling the quiet of the house, as the green numbers on the clock moved, the quiet seeped into me. I looked around at our home.

A pool of light on the Wicked snowglobe caught my eye, one brilliant point of light hovered between Elphaba and Galinda. The sounds and colors of Proctors Theatre came whooshing back. The girls faces rapt with wonder at the sheer number of people and then later, the pageantry of the show. Avery watched the mechanical cogs and monkeys, while Briar followed the actors like a cat watching a bouncing ball. Tears streamed down my face at the memory.

I looked at the end cabinet, glass door ajar and shelves overflowing with yarn. Woolen lines of scarlet and navy cascaded over baskets, bits of rolled up fabric sat beneath block letters. ”Can we wrap letters with you, mama? Can we do a branch?” Remembering having said yes and their subsequent focus and delight again made me weep. Turning toward the kitchen, I looked at the window sill. Little vases perched with yarn-wound twigs, cheery and hopeful. Also, delicate.

My life. The rat-a-tat-tat of the days don’t often leave time for pause. Padding to bed after this calm, I felt repaired. I made my rounds giving flutter kisses on sleeping heads, then slipping beneath the covers of our bed and setting three different alarms—one to take Fin to pee in the night, one to wake up and another for good measure. This morning I woke first, slipping downstairs to make coffee for Sean, then sneaking back to my spot amidst our things. The yarn ends on the floor and pinecones peeking from beneath the dining room table are so much less clutter in this light. Before the dawn I can see the elements of triumph.

Because it won’t be tidy and it won’t be at a mellow pace, it just will be.

I was scrolling through those pictures and I wouldn’t trade those four days for the world. We took snowy walks at dusk, stoked burning embers in the fireplace as we read stories and worked on a Blue Line puzzle until our eyes crossed. Thanksgiving looms and as much as I’d like to, there won’t be a getaway this year. What I’ve realized is that if we take the time to have our minds far enough from our worries or the ruts, we rediscover the techniques to being present. We can still take walks, like we did yesterday on the prettiest Sunday morning in memory. We can read stories, like the four we borrowed from the library Saturday morning and read tonight. We can have a backyard fire or we can tussle through the absurdity that is sharing one blanket between the five of us.

I’m looking forward to another trip one day, but for now, I am grateful for my family. I cherish the memory of the getaway we had and rejoice in the prospect of a few days at home being happy to be together.

To pajamas at noon and cuddles all the day long.

I’d be more upset if I thought that we were failing. The truth is Sean and have so much. We work together at both of our businesses (we share an office, as a matter of fact), we partner on homework/projects/activities with the girls and we have fun with whatever we do. Being together all the time means that sometimes we do go through the motions and come up short in the romance department at the end of the day. Did I really just say Romance Department?

Anyway, we don’t have any grand secret to getting along, but we do have a little thing we do that always makes my heart skip a beat. It’s simple, can happen anywhere and almost always catches us by surprise.

If we spy the clock at 11:11, we kiss.

If we aren’t together, we text.

If it’s 11:10 we sometimes watch the clock together.

Knowing that we have a time for love always makes me remember that I am in love with him.

Do you have a secret?

I don’t mind sharing the 11:11 tradition with you, or you can find your own. Just love.

“A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.”

It comes as Grandma and Papa are visiting, which of course makes me think of my sister.

The truth of that quote shimmers before me, as just hearing her name uttered, whether it is, “Abbie” or “Ab” or “Abigail” the screens of my childhood come quickly to the front. The light is honeyed with the fondness time brings, but every detail seems to come back—where we were, how we laughed, what we said.

Watching three new sisters weave in and out of one another’s moments of play, I can see the tender replays they’ll get, no matter what happens over the decades I hope will come. They’ll careen in and out of liking one another, but this time of romping and imagining won’t be marred by boys and competition when they look back.

Standing in my backyard watching the sun pour through the limbs of the gracious old trees that tower over the everything, I think the same can be said for friendship. There is an inevitable ebb and flow to how and when we cherish one another, the ways in which life can pull a shared path apart, but when you look back, the light softens the edges and you remember the love and play that was.

To Indian Summers and the memories captured between the borrowed sun and stolen moments.

Outside the window, amber colored leaves are fluttering down, their flight pulling my eyes away from the monitor. Off to my other side sunlight is pouring through the sliding glass door. Every so often the house creaks, the gentle sound comforts me. Outside those trees that I’ve loved since we first saw this house stand vigil. They remain through every kind of weather; ready to delight us, protect us and remind us of the many blessings we have. Knowing they are there makes me lift my head and smile, feeling, even indoors, the warmth of sunshine upon my face and a breeze nipping at my hair.

I’ve sat in this chair before, wrapped up in confusion and stress, focusing on things that have hurt me. Echoes of words unspoken and others spoken too plainly pelt against me unseen. It’s easy to get sucked into to being hurt or distrustful, it saps all of your energy. I try not to let this happen while the girls are around, keeping my chin up and a twinkle in my eye, but that charade costs even more. Here in this caramelly light of autumn, I am realizing what is permanent and what is simply a passing moment. This chair and this heart can no longer lend space to that sadness. I need to be in these times as they happen, not stalling to be real until after little girls are sleeping.

And so, as we head into another weekend, I am wishing you sweet light and crisp clarity, but most of all, the strength to honor the life that you are living.

We’ve been trying to lead by example—working things through, as a family and as a couple. We try new things, compromise, take turns and ask questions. I try not to dwell on not fitting in and yearning to do so, but being unwilling to squelch the parts of me that don’t fit. Trying to make sense of it makes my head hurt, but avoiding it makes my heart ache. I’m realizing it’s just a different understanding of fitting and I am working on it. Who do we need to fit? Where are we supposed to belong? Who exactly am I?

Am I the sweaty, unafraid of dirt and hard work carpenter?

Am I the writer feeling euphoric at BlogHer in NYC?

Am I the bride they think looks like a princess?

The shameless source of crazy character voices?

The free spirit willing to tiptoe in the frigid water?

The one willing to speak up even when they want me quiet?

[No photo, but it's a thing of beauty]

I’ve realized lately that I have to be everything that I can; sharing all that I am with them helps me be better. I make smarter decisions, or I say I messed up. I love them and give to them unconditionally, but I also let them know when I just can’t. When I can’t hear all three voices at once, when I can’t sew the hem of a silver satin dress from the Gap that fell apart after less than 1 wearing. Owning what I am and what I am not is a gift.

I think the greatest piece of wisdom I’ve seen in a long time was this:

Not everyone is going to like you, let that be their problem, not yours.

I’d like to give that to my girls, I think by letting them know they can be whoever they want to be, I will.

I am more who I want to be every day, with my constant being that I am their mama.

Discovering that you can’t teach something hurts. All the wonderful intentions I had to mold certain characteristics in our girls have slipped through my fingers like so much sand. Suddenly the time between now and goodbye seems impossibly short. There are things, lessons, I need to leave them having learned.

Yesterday there was a verbal scuffle after we tucked them in for a nap, angry whispers, then tears. They’re learning so much from us and seeing the reflection of our own actions and words in how they cope with one another is as humbling as it is gratifying. This time it was a threat of leaving the family, nothing we’ve said, but something that has been interpreted in the bends and kinks of their own family tree and in the stories in movies—orphans, step-parents, heaven. The inevitability of some fractures takes my breath, the looming idea of someone they really love dying. Hearing them threaten to leave the family hurts more.

How do I ever convey to them the incomparable worth of family? I know it doesn’t keep in the literal sense for everyone, families can crumble, dearness can be recreated through friendship, rather than blood. I had just hoped that in the tumultuousness of the school years they could be each other’s haven, that they could live without the urge to buck. Coming to grips with the reality that I cannot teach it, or perhaps more accurately, that they will not learn it from me, leaves me hollow. I am trying to understand how to tread in this place that terrifies me, can I mitigate the hurt or do I mess things up more by standing my ground?

I kept my distance on this one saying only, “No one is leaving this family. If you don’t want to talk or play, that’s fine. Leave the room, but don’t ever say you are leaving the family.” They looked back at me, three sets of blue eyes, they were sobered, but not blank. My hands trembled as I realized that already my message is weakening. They are weighing and processing on their own. Sure, I can still parent, still enforce rules and issue punishments or rewards as is suitable, but the working through in their own way has begun. I have to trust.

Trusting feels a little like abdicating, this stepping back seems less like a decision than it does a cop out. I want to warn them how lonely it can be, how cruel things are going to get at school, but they aren’t living my life and I cannot live theirs. My ears strained to listen to their murmurs as I walked downstairs. Were they going to punish each other for my mild intervention or would they align in an us against them mentality? Their voices were to soft, too deliberate for me to hear.

I walked downstairs and waited. Poised to leap to their cries, it would seem that for now that is all I can do.