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.

It’s kept me company in the hours when sleep hides.

It’s hidden so that I can listen in the dark.

It’s blinded me with beauty on the lake.

It’s shone down on us as we’ve colored together.

It’s danced outside my window and made me smile.

Light

It’s the feeling in my heart when I let my joy cast stronger shadows than my sorrow.

I think we tend to get really angry at ourselves for not feeling all-consuming gratitude and goodwill during the holidays.

How shallow?

How weak?

Just get over it!

No, how normal! The truth is with a time so chock full of expectation and memory, a little internal turmoil is inevitable. As yet another cheerfully addressed envelope arrives in your mailbox and reinforces your failure at not having sent any and as you drive past another street with house after house decorated fancifully for the holiday and as the wrapping paper rips and the tape picks up pet hair and crumbs, stifle your rant. Or let it out. Either way, trust that you aren’t alone.

Truth is we’re all faking it, but just when you least expect it, that forced smile is going to get hijacked by real laughter. I promise.

I started blogging in 2004 and I do revel in this space and what it has given me. I like thinking about what my grandmother would have thought of these words I’ve been putting down. Looking back I know that it’s offered catharsis but, it doesn’t stop me from grinding my teeth at night. Or during the day. A sweet friend asked on twitter the other night, “how do I learn to let go of things I can not control? tell me, please.” I don’t think a single one of us has hold on that answer all the time. Maybe time and patience, and then more time, more patience and, perhaps hypnosis can get you there. The thing that works for me, that brings true oblivion, is muscle fatigue. Motion.

I used to resent hearing that I should go for a run or hit the gym, but it’s true. Saturday I went to the gym around noon. I set myself up on the incline bench and looked up at the bar. I loosened my shoulders and stared at the ceiling. My mind can play tricks on me, “There are too many meat heads,” or “my shirt is riding up, I can’t do this.” I wiggle on the bench as if to shake off the doubt and distraction. These arms have carried plaster, cradled babies and protected memories. They can do so much. I can. The din of the gym fades away and it is just me. The pattern on the bar presses against my palms, my chest rises and I lift the bar into the air.

Up. Down. Breathe.

Up. Down. Breathe.

The burn is slow and steady, my arms begin to tremble and still I lift. All the worry and untold hurts are forced from my mind as I work to keep the bar from slamming into my face. My increasing fatigue tickles at something. I stare through the bar and up to the ceiling, pressing to keep the bar even through each repetition.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven is a struggle. As my elbows bend and I bring the bar down to my chest, I take in a deep breath of air and push toward twelve. Every centimeter is a battle that I win and as I fully extend my arms the ceiling lights up and I smile. Ear-to-ear, meat heads be damned. I replace the bar and rack my weights. Walking across the room I am proud of myself. Each step is more purposeful and full of gratitude. I am at peace as I move toward the door.

These times at the gym are almost always revelatory, why I fall out of the routine defies logic. Do you stick to what keeps you sane? Happy? Where is your serenity?

Me: Yes, love?

Finley: Mama, you are breaking my heart. You’re just making it to be broken and broken.

Me: I am? How, sweets?

Finley: You just aren’t seeing my happy, I can tell it in your face.

She snapped this picture of me. She’s right. Been facing some hard times, and while I put on a brave face, these faces captured (again and again) by the girls with my phone tell a different story.

Are you revealing your worry?

I am going to focus more on this face, it’s worth trying to copy.

I would put on my Oakland A’s batting helmet, tucking my hair in tight, and then putting on my dad’s thick eyeglasses. I’d have to lean into the mirror very close to get the full effect because his vision was pretty bad. Then I’d clutch the towel tight under one armpit, take the glasses off first, then the helmet and I’d shake my head to get the hair to fall around my shoulders.

Sometimes I’d lean into the mirror further and try to wink as I turned on one heel to walk away all sexy-like. As you can imagine most times I cracked myself up and grabbed my clothes so that I could go roller skate on the deck as Tear for Fears played from my little boom box.

About a month ago I got an invite to go to a murder mystery party for Halloween. My character? Jenna Mopez. It was a huge stretch for me and, quite possibly, one of the most fun experiences I have ever had pushing myself outside of my comfort zone.

The crazy experience taught me a couple of things:

I don’t have to be anyone else. When I tried adopting someone else’s defining (or recognizable) traits, I realized how special my own really are.

It’s ok to wear whatever you like; fashion, however you interpret it, is meant to be fun.

Pool is not meant to be played while wearing a floppy hat.

A little bit of attitude can trump fear.

Pleather doesn’t breathe.

Us moms could stand to channel a bit of the diva from time to time to help us discover a stronger voice. Try it.

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 reach for one thing, grab another and nearly wet myself with the, “Damn, what if I had?”

See for yourself.

These events are dizzying by necessity; sessions scheduled back-to-back, professional suitors inserting themselves between panel and bathroom, coffee and break-out session. The air was charged with an excitement, but every so often I could feel a crackle of something else, ferocity? The collision of so many aspirations and agendas made for moments of tension. I was happy to observe, keeping my tone light and my own hope guarded.

“Do you have a manuscript?”

“An agent?”

“A proposal?”

I’d smile and defer, someone nearby was always more than happy to breathlessly interrupt with their idea.

“It’s a memoir, but it’s different ya know? Gritty, funny. Real,” she’d say, I’d smile and nod, ask a question or two. The conversation would wend its way back to family or career. I spent more time talking about my advertising agency and retail shop than I did my book.

My book.

I have 100+ pages of a manuscript sitting in my nightstand. The memory of each page is so vibrant, the time Sean sent me to the park with my laptop to work in peace; the mornings I woke before the dawn and resuscitated memories of my life years ago. Between those pages I kept my dream, using heartache and bad decisions to trudge my way up a ladder. My mentor read it, acknowledged the quality of writing, but off-handedly declared it wasn’t the story I was supposed to tell. I was stunned and so I kept writing and wondering if he was right.

“So, do you have a book idea?” I broke from my reverie, blinked and said that yes I did. “Two actually.” Sean’s warning echoed in my head, “Don’t give anyone your idea.” I’d thought he was silly to call out that warning, but I heeded his words. After the Publishing 101 panel that I live-blogged as part of my conference duties, I was sitting in a conference room, Kate Lee, the agent from ICM who spoke on the panel was checking email. I made a few jokes about the intensity of the session, then I asked about the threat of an idea being taken. She was very direct, as she was in her panel time, “Yeah, that will always be a risk.” I thought about it, “So it’s really just a leap of faith?” She nodded and said that it was.

I went about the rest of the conference with a new awareness. Penguin Books illuminated so many points that, along with the insight from people like Lauren Cerand (public relations), my path was suddenly clear: absorb everything possible and open myself to the next step. I mingled, dreamed and listened as so many things I already knew took root. It was revelatory to understand that I belonged, not because of any particular group of people, rather because I am a writer and I have a story to tell.

After the last session ended and the inaugural BlogHer Writer’s Conference was declared to be closed, I let myself be carried out onto the streets of Midtown Manhattan along with the throngs of guests dressed to the nines for some event or another. I walked lightly until I came to a clearing a few blocks from the hotel. I paused, indifferent to looking like a tourist, and drank in the halo of a wispy tree festooned with twinkly, white lights.

I’m home now. I’ve held my manuscript, tenderly looked at the pages Sean so lovingly laid out for me. I am proud of the words, but I know now the story I need to tell. It isn’t that one, not because a mentor said so, but because I know who is listening and what words will elicit the response that I have come to cherish here. It began to take shape months ago during a conversation Sean and I had. It’s good, better than good. The chapter outlines wink at me from a folder on my laptop. Pages already written propel me forward.

It’s when the ball is over, the fancy ensembles set aside and your unmade face staring back at you that you see your own magic. I am so grateful for the time away, made possible by my family and friends, that has me back at home, sleeves up and story pouring from my heart.