The Constant in the Chaos

My fingers race over the keyboard, thoughts tumbling onto the screen.

Pausing, I read what I’ve written.

Sigh.  Select the text.  Delete.

More slowly, I begin again, attempting to form the sentences in my head before typing.

I read what I’ve written.

Sigh.  Select the text.  Delete.

Pushing back my laptop, I read the jotted prompt in my little notebook:

“The top area of your life where you would like to apply the Just.Be.Enough. mission of standing taller.”

My cursor blinks at me, the screen blank, glimpses of ideas scurrying around my mind, ducking behind columns as I try to grab them, pile them together, decide which part of my life most needs this important mantra: Just.Be.Enough.

I idly flip the pages in my planner, take a drink of water, reach for the book on the corner of my desk, ready to distract myself with another one of the endless tasks on my to-do list.

My nails are unpainted.  I need to empty the dishwasher.  There are new songs I want to add to my running playlist.

Each thought is a bouncing ball, a tiny sphere of pink rubber ricocheting back and forth in my mind, bumping against other thoughts, rebounding off each other, crowding the space and making it impossible to follow any one thought to its final destination.

Again, my eyes go to the prompt:

“The top area of your life where you would like to apply the Just.Be.Enough. mission…”

I jot notes.  Running.  Writing.  Self-Image.  Parenting.

Running has been a struggle lately; after the half marathon I need to rediscover what it means to run without a clock, without mileage expectations, without a goal other than the joy I find in running.

I’m writing and editing and collaborating on amazing projects, but I am unsure what all of those things mean in relation to my own professional path, unsure if it can even be considered a professional path.

Preschool has reawakened my worries about moving, where I want the kids to go to school, when we’ll be able to consider a move at all.

Dylan resisted going to bed tonight, and as he buried himself into my chest, I breathed him in and vowed to spend more time enjoying each little phase of their development instead of worrying about timelines and schedules.

“The top area of your life…”

I study the words I’ve doodled.  Which area is top?  How do I determine where I need to most accept my limitations and embrace my strengths, when I’m so unsure about so many of my end goals?

Deliberately, I reach for the computer.

I have not had a moment of clarity.

I can’t declare that I am enough as a runner, a writer, a mother, a wife.

I am uncertain about where any of these paths will lead.

Without a goal, a destination, I cannot state with certainty that I am enough.

There is only one certainty.

Today, in a parking lot, I held Abbey’s hand, her other hand holding Dylan’s small fingers.  Ryan completed our small chain, holding Dylan’s other hand firmly in his.  Our eyes met briefly, over the heads of our children, a smile holding the four of us together.

I am unsure where my path will lead, but I know who is walking at my side.

And that is enough.

Every MONDAY join us… 
Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice. 
Be part of carrying the weight of confidence, empowerment and share our mission
to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

An Evening in Louisiana

*I originally wrote this post for writing prompts noted at the end of the post.  If you're reading it again, I think you'll agree that I couldn't change my idea of the perfect gift.

All week, our swimsuits stayed tucked into suitcases, tank tops and sundresses hidden beneath cardigan sweaters and, one night, a black and silver feather boa purchased from a little store that didn’t mind us shopping with to-go cups of deceptively sweet hurricanes in our hands.

Cool air kept the infamous humidity at bay, hidden behind the wrought iron fences embracing the lush yards of the Garden District Home. 

I planned one night of relaxation before driving back to Michigan, but raindrops and cloud cover meant the tiny, private pool would languish unused during our stay at Nottoway Plantation.

Wrapped in a sweater, I settle into a wrought iron chair in our courtyard, glad Ryan upgraded our room as a surprise.  After the garish lights and bustle of Bourbon Street, the privacy is luxurious and surreal, aqua lights shining from the pool to cast a cool glow onto the stone walls barring us from any distractions.

Champagne flutes sit on the little table between us, pushed back slightly when we pull our chairs together, edges touching.  He sips once or twice, then his glass is forgotten, effervescence bubbling to the surface like our conversation, natural and effortless.

I relax.  Even in the cool air, the chilled champagne is cold on my tongue, sweetly tickling the roof of my mouth before dancing dryly down my throat.  The ornately detailed chair presses into my thighs, etching its pattern onto my skin like a memory.

My bare legs are ready to go inside before long, but Ryan takes my hands in both of his, his warmth banishing the chill in the air.

Looking into his eyes, blue and grey and green, the cool breeze grows still.  Slowly, our effortless conversation morphs into something else.  The turquoise water bathes us in a reflective glow, powered by words that do more than ask a question, the question. 

Yes.

Tears prick at my lids but are whisked away by our matching smiles, the fierce tenderness of our embrace.  Laughter bubbles as we realize he’s still on one knee, making our hug perfectly awkward and unforgettable.

Yes.

He lets go of my hands at some point, because suddenly there’s a ring nestled in black velvet, the sheen of platinum circling around to a diamond, made for my finger, made for this moment.

Twinkling in the muted light, each facet reflects a new color, every color a promise.  In its sparkles, I see our family, hugs of comfort and celebration, this ring circling a finger bent and riddled with old age.  I see a life together.

Our life together.

Forever and ever, yes.  

Every MONDAY join us…
Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice. Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission
to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

Next week’s prompt: Priorities

(Remember you can also write on a topic of your choice.)

the prompt:

Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.

I'm also linking this over at the Lauren Nicole Gifts Blog, for their new monthly link-up.This month's theme is "the best gift you've ever received."

Always There

For days, she chatted about it to anyone who would listen.

"We're having a sleepover tomorrow!" (actually, not until Saturday)

"We're going to the nature center - the one by Grandma's house."

"Maybe we will watch the Bare Necessities?" (the song in The Jungle Book she danced to in her recital)

In the car, I heard her murmering about it to Dylan, who is likely oblivious to the meaning of "sleepover" but who listened and smiled, enchanted by everything she says.

Outwardly, I smiled, laughing with her and talking about how much fun they would have. 

Inwardly, I sighed, missing them before they even left.

We carefully chose which pajamas and outfits to pack.  And yes, I said outfits, plural, for her one night stay at Grandma and Grandpa's.  I guess overpacking runs in the family.

Saturday morning came, and I kissed and hugged and kissed them goodbye, burying my nose into each little head of hair, inhaling them.

They were only gone a little more than twenty-four hours, but I missed Abbey's constant updates about Mit the Mouse and Dylan's garbled, giggled babbling.

My heart felt a little out of place, but...

...I didn't mind listening to an Eminem song without headphones.

...I cherished the long dinner out with Ryan, laughing about our slightly spastic waiter without worrying that one of us would have to leave the table with a restless child, food growing cold on the table.

...I luxuriated in sleeping all night and reading 8:10 a.m. on the bedside clock in the morning.

And when I saw them Sunday, comfortable and happy with my parents, I remembered.

I am not the only one who loves them.

Grandpa's got this one

Sleep Tight

He cries out in the middle of the night.  Instinctively, my eyes fly open, waiting to hear if the next cry is louder and more urgent or a softer whine indicating he’s on his way back to sleep.  Hearing need in his voice, I roll out of bed, my feet groggily stepping over the gate at the top of the stairs, counting stairs in the darkness.

I always offer water, but usually his sip is brief, a quick swallow before he buries his head into hollow between my chin and my shoulder.

His chubby fingers reach up, tangling into the back of my hair.  Out of habit, I sing to him, usually Baby Mine or Little Boy Blue, but I know he is ready to return to his crib when his grip on my hair relaxes, fingers still caught in the messy strands of sleep.

 

The four of us read together at bedtime whenever we’re all home, curled together on the big bed in Mommy and Daddy’s room before Dylan and I walk downstairs, pausing to say goodnight to Abbey as Ryan tucks her into bed.

Tonight, though, Dylan is inconsolable that tooth-brushing time is over, and I have to take him downstairs to read on the glider, kissing Abbey briefly, so she can listen to Fancy Nancy without hearing him sob.  After a few moments, he calms down, snuggling into his crib with his blankets and musical dog.

Climbing the stairs yet again, I open the door to my girl’s room, ceiling covered in stars projected from her stuffed turtle, always the violet stars.  Her smile beams up at me from her pillow, eyes sparkling, arms reaching up for a goodnight hug and kiss. 

prompt 1...

the simple things

their sleep habits are questionable, but they sure know how to melt my heart as they're keeping me awake and dependent on coffee

It's Never Too Early to Christmas Shop

Have you seen Bellflower Books?  They are absolutely gorgeous keepsake albums that can be personalized for any special occasion you would like to commemorate.  A feature that I think makes their service really special is the ease with which a group of people can work together to collect their thoughts, photos, and special words for someone they all love.

I can't think of a more unique gift, although I have to admit I am torn between ordering one for someone special or ordering one for myself!

Bellflower Books was started by two women, women who have been friends for most of their lives (seriously, you can see their childhood photos on their blog!)  They've created something lovely together, and now they're opening up their blog to recognize special people who may not always realize how much they're valued and cherished.

I'm honored that the ladies at Bellflower Books are lending me their space today to talk about a truly gorgeous and irreplaceable woman in my life.  Please join me at the Bellflower Books blog to read more about her!



I'm not being compensated by Bellflower Books for this post, except for the space on their blog for the guest series post!  I genuinely think their company looks amazing, and I can't wait to create a Bellflower Book of my own one day.

On Father's Day

toddler legs trip quickly, quickly into the kitchen

his smile exploding in anticipation

she insists that I lift her high

or scrambles up on her wooden chair

peeking out the window

chubby fingers grip the gate

they jostle for position

Daddy's home

 Happy Father's Day!

to all the dads, grandpas, uncles, and men that make us smile all year long,

even if they are only in our memories, like my Pap, this day is still for them

there's something about seeing my dad reading to Abbey and Dylan in the house where I still feel so at home that makes me realize how incredibly blessed we all are

Happy Anniversary to Us

Six years ago today, my girlfriends, my mom, and I breakfasted on fruit and bagels and toasted with mimosas as we got our hair done despite rain and wind and unseasonably cold weather.

Six years ago today, I slid into a dress that made me feel like a princess and a veil worn lovingly by my mother, a garter steeped with the importance of sorority traditions, and a strand of pearls precious because my grandma gave them to me.

Six years ago today, Ryan and I broke tradition and met each other before the ceremony, a moment that happened in an alcove of windows that let in streams of natural light and made me more certain than ever that I was marrying my best friend and the love of my life.

Six years ago today, I danced with my husband and danced with my Daddy and danced with my girls and danced with our guests and loved every song played by the DJ.

Six years ago today, Ryan and I ended our reception surrounded by our friends swaying to Piano Man by Billy Joel.

Six years ago today, I became a wife.

Happy Anniversary Ryan.

I love you.

xoxo

we definitely needed umbrellas April 23, 2005

maybe that's why Abbey loves the rain

Playing Hard

Nan hopped into the (rented) mini-van for the ride back from Nashville, and she and my mom wrangled the kids Saturday morning while Ryan and I frolicked with the martians, and Nan proved once again why she is so beloved by anyone who meets her.

As Abbey has told me several times since then: "Nan played hard with us!"

She gets down on the floor with them, is endlessly patient, and builds play-doh animals that put my snakes and snowmen to shame.  I'm talking the kind that you see on the side of the box, with different colors for eyes and things like that. 

(I just realized it's possible that other people make play-doh animals like that, and I might be in the minority with the snakes and snowmen and cookie cutter shapes.  If so, humor me and pretend it's ok that my sculpting skills halted at kindergarten level.)

We are so blessed to have her spending time with us again!

Dylan is a giant fan of legos

one of his favorite things is putting them back in the container

unfortunately, his other favorite thing is dumping them out of the container 

I wasn't there, but I bet he knocked that tower down very shortly after my mom took the picture 

very serious about the play-doh

this book is one of Abbey's favorites

it's a collection of stories about kids and animals

I usually have her pick one or (sometimes) two of them, because they're long and don't rhyme or keep Dylan's attention (or mine) for more than a few minutes

Nan read the whole thing, because she is wonderful like that

Sunshine After Snow

Planning a wedding for the end of April in Michigan means accepting that the weather cannot be slid into a pocket of a shiny wedding planner or checked off a to-do list, like “find romantic smoky-eye photo” and “pay eight trillion wedding vendors”.

Marrying my best friend and the love of my life made it easy to laugh at the snow covering the ground as our plane took off, as did the knowledge that the beaches of Hawaii were waiting patiently at the end of a long flight, with a few day’s stop in southern California, land of beautiful weather.

My first Hawaiian cocktail: a pina colada, sticky sweet and icy and garnished with a little umbrella and a slice of Hawaiian pineapple. Relaxed and content and surrounded by sand, I sipped from the coconut-infused rum, cool sweat from the glass dripping welcome relief from my warm hand to my (still basically lily white) legs.

I slid the garnish from the glass without thinking, nibbling at the edge of the pineapple.

Sunshine flooded my mouth, dancing across my tongue and leaving a trail of nectar on my lips.

I forgot that the pineapple slice was only the drink’s garnish, an afterthought grabbed by the bartender from a black, plastic nest of similar slices. I devoured the rest of the fruit, ignoring the sticky juice on my fingers, the napkin that came with my drink long-forgotten on a table somewhere.

I’d eaten pineapple before, appreciated the sweetness of the fruit, the slight tartness, the juice seeming to be held together by tender threads of flesh.

This pineapple was different, eaten from the edge of a glass, my new wedding ring a pleasant, unfamiliar weight on my hand. The fruit captured the languid sunshine of the day, clinging to the roof of my mouth and corners of my memory like the brown grains of sand that remain in tiny folds in my suitcases.

Before that day in April, I had tasted pineapple, but not pineapple cultivated on ground only a few miles from my beach towel. Before that day in April, Ryan and I had traveled together, but not as a married couple, a team, a complete circle. Later that day, we decided to forego our planned island hopping and settled into island time.

Friends and travel forums extol restaurants around the island that boast delicately prepared fish and extravagant wine pairings, but I found myself looking forward to bowls of fresh fruit eaten at our breakfast buffet. Those chunks of pineapple, surrounded by mango and papaya, were a stolen dessert, one eaten before setting out to snorkel or swim or nap.

Dessert in the morning, day after day, promised that life could not get any better, and I think about those moments now, years later, when I add a whole pineapple to my cart, balking at the cost of the pre-cored, plastic containers of fruit.

When I needed a healthy treat to add to a party menu, I slid chunks of pineapple onto kabob sticks along with strawberries, melon, kiwi, blueberries, and blackberries, a rainbow of flavors, as delicious as they were healthy.

When my miscarriage shook my faith in my own body, I carefully separated the core of the pineapple, eating the tougher, bitter part of the fruit, fervently willing myself to believe the old wives tales that promised increased success with implantation.

When Abbey was ready to start “cutting things” with me in the kitchen, I armed her with a pink plastic knife from Ikea and showed her how to turn the long strip of fruit into bite-sized pieces. We ate her handiwork from the cutting board and from a bowl and from the refrigerator until the acid rendered our taste buds inoperable.

Planning a wedding for the end of April in Michigan meant giving up control of the weather. I hadn’t expected snow on the ground, and I hadn’t expected to discover a fruit I had eaten countless times before, but both unexpected moments are precious threads in the tapestry begun when a simple circle slid onto my finger and my heart.

This post is part of The Red Dress Club's RemembeRED, an exercise in memoir writing.  The prompt: This week, we'd like for you to write about your favorite fresh fruit or vegetable.

Concrit is always welcome!