The day before I’d spent the morning with the girls at the park. I stumbled about in a syrupy daze, torn between relief to have the summer nearly behind us and melancholy to have the surge of autumn and all the irreversible change it will bring upon us. I watched them hungrily.

Imprinting.

Worshipping.

Claiming.

Then it was past, a nearly imperceptible chime, an alarm. I tried to ignore it and stay frozen in their oblivion to everything but their now.

I hesitated.

Not yet.

I knew what I had to do and resented it. Time to leave the park, off to the next thing.

We arrived in Yakima safely, with everyone displaying equal amounts of need and independence. Trying to employ the breathing that is supposed to calm me in flight, I find myself confused about what exactly I am afraid of. More than 3,000 miles and we are at a playground again. Their delight just as potent.

They are deliberate.

Fearless.

Bolder.

I am happy, but it’s the kind of happy that makes me feel tired and weepy. I’ve come back to where I grew up and so much has changed. My reflection is not the same, the same is true of all that I love. The trees are more rooted and in some ways it seems as if their branches that brush me as I pass are like the Lost Boys.

You didn’t stay. They charge. You left.

And then there are my girls, clambering, screeching and frolicking beneath the limbs that protect them, shade that wasn’t there before now dances over their forms. I smile as I see them running in the faint hollows of the ruts Abbie and I made, paths we carved. They squeal in Papa’s lap, sit at Grandma’s feet for stories. The echos are sweet and I wouldn’t trade this time, but it makes the call of all that is out of my control that much louder.

First grade, Pre-K, Independent Learners. So many hours I won’t see, preparing them for all the avenues that will open to carry them wherever they choose. I can do this. They will soar.

And I will watch.

Hungrily. And I will worship.

And I will weep…

1st grade.

Pre-school.

Pre-pre-school.

Bus.

Car.

Office.

Memberships.

Committees.

Bands.

This doesn’t even touch on health. Granted, I am still recovering, my energy slowly, so freaking slowly, inching its way up. I had set a goal of designating time for me to do yoga once we moved. The girls were going to learn to swim. Go to camp. Sean was going to work out. So many things I wanted to do, but in the same way that emotions get twisted up in actions, hopes gets tangled up in obligations.

When does my duty as a mom trump my responsibilities as a business owner?

When does wife precede mom?

Mine beat theirs?

How do I allow myself to rue certain losses as a woman while teaching my daughters to accept when things don’t go their way?

Black and white seems to be doing battle with grey and all that is left is this very unsatisfying yet indisputable watered-down and disappointing film, no color, no texture, just weight and impediment.

I have dear friends writing letters soliciting prayers for sick loved ones, friends right in town enduring the passage-before-their-eyes of loved ones in the palliative leg of illness. For every complaint I have, there is a blessing.

I am finding myself beneath a craggy tree, equal parts wondrous and hideous, ungainly limbs protruding at unexpected angles, but from their farthest points swing succulent fruit. I am torn between hoarding the fruit, its sweet juices dripping down my arms and sating the deepest corners of my soul and attacking the branches and cursing them for their refusal to grow the way I want, for eclipsing the sun from the direction I had wanted other limbs to grow.

A friend directed me to an article today

But I am glad. No summer lasts forever, and no childhood does. The sweetness of the time springs from its short supply, like the three or four raspberries I sometimes find dangling from a single plant along my driveway.

I know that this is the truth. It is all worth it, all maddening, because of how it is. I do not apologize for the young girl in me that is standing, fists clenched and nose wrinkled, glaring at the stars for not getting her way. I think that in the same way that the time is sweet for how fleeting it is, the passion is that much deeper for how hard we fight for it, how fearlessly we dive and how long we freeze the frames.

But, oh, Fin, how you have amplified, enriched and heightened every thing we do and feel.

You follow a different beat, you do.

Row row row your boat,

dropping down the street,

mammary, mammary, mammary, mammary

life is butts and dreams.

…there is time.

…you should say it.

…you do deserve it.

…no, it isn’t fair.

…your current approach isn’t going to change it.

…moving on moves you forward.

…they only win if you insist on defeat.

…I am glad you are here.

…you can—

(Finish it for me)

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.

*

This morning I listened. I was calm and quiet, allowing the words to hit my ears even when I didn’t want to hear them. I waited to answer, said no cutting words and found peace on the other side.

This afternoon I stood, though my legs trembled and my voice hid. I didn’t rush or skip, I said every word, made eye contact and let the enormity of my gratitude and debt pass through the room. Then I smiled and took the deepest breath I’ve taken in a month.

Tonight I let them make dirt stew in the pool. I let them eat on the white carpet. I drew them a bath and then read five stories in varying accents. There were cuddles, kisses, second cuddles and extra kisses.

It doesn’t always come easy, but I am making choices.

Choosing happy.
Deciding on now.
Moving forward, because the only looking back I want to do is on things I’m glad I did.

I hadn’t imagined I’d get to go after the past month, yet here I am.

Mingling with unbelievably elegant people at an almost rooftop bash thrown by Martha Stewart.

Sitting 3 feet from Gavin Degraw at an exclusive party hosted by Schick.

Rubbing elbows with people I’ve admire through a screen for years.

It’s lovely and magical and everything I’d thought it would be.

And yet…

Every cab ride I take, every new corner I round and every window I look through…

I find myself imagining if the girls were here.

If Sean were walking beside me.

If the small talk I was making was about what animal New York City clouds look like and what kind of creatures live under those big round circles in the sidewalk.

It isn’t that I’m not enjoying myself, because I am, I truly am. It is the simple truth that for every step I take away from my family, the more precious I know it is.

~~~

So if you aren’t at BlogHer, just take a moment to imagine being far away and then turn back around and see all that you have.

That’s the big deal. Promise.

I wanted a dress that I could wear and honestly say, “This? This dress feels like a t-shirt, reads like an ensemble and lets me be me.” Ok, maybe I was really thinking, “How about something that won’t make me look like someone from Upstate trying to dress like their idea of a big city girl.”

Seriously, I’ve read the nasty posts about the shallowness of the attendees worrying about what to wear and the posts about sartorial obsession that impedes one’s ability to enjoy rational thought. I think all positions on the spectrum are valid. For me, it comes down to wanting to feel comfortable, that may mean one night I am going to wear my favorite, worn-in Lucky jeans that are too short so I roll them up or it may mean that for a rooftop party where I’ll know no one, I am damn wear going to wear something that makes me feel like I am doing right by my crossing-something-off-the-bucket-list-self.

Anyway, I found perfection on the site in the way of a dress that blended simple and elegant with a cut that promised I wouldn’t be tugging or twitching. Here it is in microscopic reproduction for you.

I clicked through to the end of the purchasing process and selected Next Day Air to get it here in time to take to BlogHer. My palms were sweaty with spending so much to get it here quickly, but I imagined it would serve me well for events that followed. I was happy and my desire to prepare had been sated. The morning after I ordered it I obsessively checked the order. It stayed as an order for most of the day until finally I clicked and saw “Your order has shipped.” I was elated. I had a tracking number and, yes, I tracked it.

The box came today. I was astonished that the shipping actually worked. I waited to open the box until the girls were ensconced in a rousing episode of usher-the-youngest-wildly-and-dangerously-down-the-stairs over and over again. I carefully sliced through the packing tape along the top and prepared myself for the magic I’d envisioned since clicking “purchase.”

I waded through the inflated plastic, past the sweet summer dress and Frye shoes, to lift the dress. I was going to try it on and sneak down to the girls to surprise them. It looked a bit off as I caught the first glimpse of the Tracey Reese Frock! tag. As more and more dress emerged I felt the breath rush out of my lungs. It was the wrong dress. Very, very wrong.

My mind reeled. There was no making it work. This dressed looked like something I’d have to wear on a bet. Too frilly and fussy. The cut was sure to wreak havoc on my long torso, because honestly, even in the days of high waisted pants, my belly button never saw a waist band. Long. Oh and it was garish in its blahness, is that even possible?

There was likely no chance to send it back and have the right one shipped back in time. I cursed. Then I cursed again. Then I asked the world why this always happens to me. I snatched the packing slip and dialed the number for customer service or, as seems more appropriate, customer disservice. I tried to explain to the woman what I had ordered and what I received. She asked if the dress I received was a medium and I said that it was. She asked if it was Tracy Reese and again I said that it was. Then she said something along the lines of, “And what is the difference in the dresses?” I tried to explain while she searched the website. “The dress I ordered and the dress that is in the photo on my order confirmation which came from your store has tangerine embroidery.” There was clicking and she said, “So, you did receive a Tracy Reese Frock dress in a size medium?”

I began to crack. “Yes, a size medium but this dress is (my voice took on a very Debra Winger, girlfriend is crazy timbre) nothing, NOTHING, like what I ordered. It has a WOVEN belt and an ELASTIC waist. It is not a sheath.” It was at the precise moment that I lost it when the girls decided it was time to come up and conduct Operation: Break the Mom’s on the phone we must be quiet rule. I turned to give them the hiss, shush and evil eye and they responded with greater insubordinate enthusiasm. I shrieked, “Stop.” I felt and heard the operator recoil. I almost defended myself with, “I am not a bad mom and I am not incorrect about this order being wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.” I refrained and she scoffed, “I cannot even find the dress on the website.”

I took a deep breath, feeling about as calm as Jack Nicholson, and said, “Do you have an email address to which I can send you the images of the dresses to make this easier for you?” Sigh. “Unfortunately, no, I do not have a personal email address to use at this time to do that.” I took a deep, but ragged breath and said, “Is there any email address for anyone who might be able to help me?”

She directed me to the website, walking me gum-chewing step by gum chewing step through how to scroll to the bottom of the page, go to the right hand side….(I tuend out) and finally to the contact form. I almost self-destructed from the futility. The girls became quiet. My body slumped. “Thank you for calling, is there anything else I can help you with today?” I willed myself to hang up before I told her how she could help me. I cooed at the girls and began what I knew would be an unproductive interaction with the Lord & Taylor website. It’s been 9 hours since I wrote to them. I know that isn’t a long time, but it is when the window of time I have is less than 72.

Tomorrow I will be sending the whole lot back. The dress was, for whatever reason, not meant to be. And, as the cool air of tomorrow drifts in the kitchen I realize that all that matters is that I am here, I get to go to BlogHer and I will never, ever order another dress online again. But damn if I didn’t want that dress.

Our move was incremental, with many trips going to the storage unit, others to the dump and then finally to our new house. The plants were the last thing to move (along with that inevitable pile that you forget or just pretend doesn’t exist until someone calls and says, “About that broom, wastebasket and soap dispenser…I’ve left them in a stack in the garage for you to retrieve.” Honestly, I though the soap was a kind gesture. Pffft.)

I kept the daisy on the sunny kitchen counter of our new home. We busied ourselves with unpacking and decorating. The flower sat, quiet and companionable.

Several weeks passed and the little plant looked unchanged, not dead but far from flourishing. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I walked out to the yard with it and planted it alongside the back stairs. It looked a bit awkward and suspect alongside the delicate blossoms we’d planted from the market. Each day I walked out and watered, waiting for a sign that it was mending or that I needed to yank it.

______

The other day we were at the neighbors as the girls played with the boy and girl that live there. Briar is wild about the girl, a beautiful 8 year old with a sweet disposition and a coltish way that makes me beam at her fondly. The boy, 6, who I had thought to be Ave’s favorite, is a sun-kissed caramel color with luminous dark eyes and a crooked smile that echoes the grins of a blur of boys that made my tummy flutter in elementary school.

They had been trying to play baseball, but they are easily a few years from it working with the pitching being less than accurate. Soon they were swinging and sliding and mimicking each other’s actions on various perches throughout the swingset/fort combo they have. I left to curl up in a chair in our yard and read while Sean stayed to supervise. I love the tinkle and crash soundtrack of kids romping outside. I could hear Sean and Dr. Jim, the father of the aforementioned adorable kids, talk and guffaw about stories I couldn’t hear.

After about 45 minutes Ave called for me to come and meet her in the secret path between our houses. I walked gingerly to the narrow opening. Dr. Jim had trimmed some of the branches back thus creating an enchanting tunnel of sorts, through which the kids pass again and again during their dates. As we were walking she said, “That dad is so funny. He talks about eating Daddy Long Legs for dinner.” I laughed and tried to carry the joke, asking if they had butterflies or lady bugs for dinner. She looked at me slowly, smiled weakly, shook her head and said, “Yeah, he is such a funny dad, that guy.”

That night Sean came to me in the hallway and said, “I have to tell you a story. When we were next door Ave was running around and all of a sudden she came and tugged on my shorts. ‘Dad, dad,’ she said. ‘Dad, can you tell Dr. Jim I think he’s pretty?’ and she ran off.” His eyes were twinkling as he told me the story and I laughed. Avery has her favorites and very rarely can I anticipate which category a person will fall into. Dr. Jim, pretty. It makes perfect sense, but more than making sense it touches me in a place where joy and hurt blur.

My sweet, quirky, stubborn Ave has a crush. It’s completely normal and it’s not. I’ve been trudging along beside Ave, wading through dark colors and odd ball delights. She wants gnarly when her sisters wants sparkly. She lives wide open and then clams shut, unwilling or unable to let us in until whatever cloud of hurt has passed. It isn’t that I didn’t expect her to crush, but I guess I just thought I’d be with her as it happened.

______

I walked outside the other day and saw that my Gerber had bloomed a bold red and stood tall and strong above the other daintier flowers in the row.

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.