Thanks (again) St. Anthony

A typical weekday morning, this: running around my house in the half-light of morning, hair wet, robe haphazardly tied. I shake large lumps snoring under blankets. Grumbling figures wake, shower, dress and prepare for their school days.

I am finally dressed, fingers tapping the counter as I wait for my coffee to brew. Just the scent is enough to get me going.

Miraculously, we are headed out the door at 7:30 on the nose, when my son says, "Mom, where are your keys?"

"On the stairs?" I reply, hoping they are where I normally leave them.

"Uh...Nope. Not here."

So begins another search for car keys - I swear this is a ritual that takes place at least twice a week in my house. Yesterday, Jack realized he'd left his tennis shoes at his dad's. We had to drive over to get them, and when we finally made it to school, he realized he'd left his back pack at home. At least he comes by it honestly.

So, I am standing in my kitchen, hand on hips, travel mug of hot coffee in other hand, twirling around, and praying. "Okay, St. Anthony. You know the drill, I really need those car keys. I'd like to be on time at least ONCE this week!" I walk down the hall, and see that my oldest son left his bedroom light on. Grumbling about electric bills (Lord, do I sound like my mother!), I march down the hall, high heels click-clacking, and flip the switch. I walk past my office towards the front hall, and turn in. And see my laptop sitting on my desk. Good Lord - I almost left my laptop at home today! Jack and I sure do make a pair, I think to myself. I shut the laptop, slide it into its case, turn around...and there are my car keys.

If I'd grabbed the spare keys and left the house, if Connor had remembered to turn off his light, I'd have certainly left my laptop at home. Everything happens for a reason. Really. Sound familiar? What was your most recent experience that brought you to this realization?

Thankful for the simple things

I've been traveling quite a bit for work lately. So, this past weekend I couldn't wait to get home and have a "normal" weekend with my kids. No unpacking, doing laundry till all hours of the night and then repacking for another trip. I was determined to enjoy our time together.

Jack had a soccer tournament that started Friday night. They won their first game, and Saturday morning we headed back out to Sport Port for the first of two more games. The good guys won 3-2, and were excited about their standings. As we loaded back into the car - Jack, Ella, and Jack's teammate Nick - I called my oldest son, Connor to tell him I'd be home in 20 minutes. I was hoping to spend a few minutes with him before he headed off to the Cardinal's game with a friend.

We turned onto the expressway and I came to a slow stop behind three cars at a red light. I glanced in my rearview mirror (a habit I'd picked up since I'd been rear-ended almost 10 years before), and had a moment of horrible deja vu'... A Ford Excursion was barreling down on us. It all happened within seconds - I turned my head to the right, and shot my arm out in front of Jack, who was sitting in the front passenger seat. I had no way to warn them, could do nothing to protect them. And then the squeal of tears, the impact, and all six air bags erupted in my Saturn Vue. The car filled with smoke from the airbags, and OnStar came over the speakers asking if everyone was okay.

I can't imagine how Connor felt when I called to tell him that I wouldn't make it home in time to see him after all. I imagine the same thought that went through my mind, went through his as well. What if? What if I hadn't been able to call? What if we just hadn't come home? While I talked to police officers, Jack stood on the side of the road holding his little sister. As I walked over to him, he leaned down, kissed the top of her head and whispered, "I'm so glad you're okay." Me too, buddy. Me too.

Thank God, my kids were okay. Minor scraps, a sprained wrist, a mild concussion, and sore neck were all the damage we sustained. The car was another matter - a total loss, the insurance adjuster told us later. I didn't care. Cars can be replaced.

This morning, five days after the accident, I stopped by my 10-year old's school for the Fall Fitness Day Pep Rally. I walked into a sea of red, white and blue. 700 kids from Kindergarten to 5th grade were dressed in their "team" colors. My son Jack, a fifth grader, wore blue from head to toe. Blue face paint, hair color and nail polish completed the look. The middle school band came over to play during the pep rally, which added to my pleasure, as my oldest son is in the band. Their little sister's Pre-K's class was also invited to join the festivities. She sat wide-eyed with her peers, hands clapping along to the music, looking around for her two older brothers, whom she knew were there - somewhere.

I stood with the other parents, watching each of my kids in turn. Connor, playing the clarinet, who knew I was there, but at 13, was not about to acknowledge me. Jack, who, when he saw that I was pointing my camera his way, lit up in a big grin, eager to show off his team spirit. And Ella, who waved me over every time our eyes met across the room.

As we all marched outside, Connor back to his middle school, Ella over to the PreK playground, and Jack, headed outside to battle the white and red teams, I soaked in the autumn sun, the cool breeze, and children's voices rising to a cloudless, blue sky. I raised my eyes upwards and whispered a "thank you." For the simple things, for the normalcy of it all. I am so blessed.

Little Bites of a Big Apple

How I wish I’d been braver in my early twenties. I would have loved to live in Manhattan, darting in and out of subway stations, perching on the steps of an old brownstone balancing my laptop and dreaming about tomorrow. A mid-90s Carrie Bradshaw.

Each time I return to New York, I am filled with an overwhelming desire to go back twenty years. I want to take my younger self by the shoulders, look her in the eye and tell her it’s okay to dream, it’s okay to go after what you want in life, even if it seems impossible, even if you don’t think you’ve got what it takes. Now is the time to try! Be brave! There’s so much out there! But, knowing myself as long as I have (almost 38 years now), I know that I’d have looked my current self in the eye and said “yeah, okay, whatever,” shrugged her off, rolled my eyes and kept walking.

Now when I walk down 5^th Avenue, up 42^nd street, across Times Square I think about how far I’ve come and I realize that while I have gained the intelligence and self-confidence to do it, no way in hell would I move to a city where my current mortgage payment would get me about 450 square feet of space. Where I’d have to take two subway rides and a train to and from work every day…

Those Big Apple dreams I have for my younger self aren’t going to come true for her. She was afraid to step outside her comfort zone. She wasn’t sure that she had what it takes to make something of herself and she was afraid to try. Maybe, at 18, that girl had no desire to see the world. Not like I do now. And while it took some time, she did find herself. ..right here in West St. Louis County. She’s still got big dreams – to wander through Paris, to write a novel, to afford a little luxury in her life.

I wonder if, twenty years from now, I’ll look back on this time in my life and wish for something more. Something different. I hope not. I hope this path I’m on is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

If You Are A Dreamer...

I just received my second acceptance letter from Chicken Soup. Apparently my story “A Healing Friendship” has made it to the final round for the “Dog’s Life” Anthology coming out next spring. It’s a story of our three-legged dog, Biscuit, and my middle son, Jack (yep, that's him in the picture). I wrote it several months and many stories ago, so I went back to read it this morning. It made my own eyes misty (PMS mood notwithstanding), so I guess that’s a good thing.

In his book of poems, “Where the Sidewalk Ends,” Shel Silverstein writes: If you are a dreamer, come in. If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer…

Speaking of Jack, this child of mine is a dreamer (not unlike his mom). A day-dream believer, if you will. At ten and a half he still has all the faith in the world that Santa will shoot down the chimney on Christmas Eve.

Case in point: A few weeks ago, Jack came into my bedroom as I was getting dressed for work, holding up a tooth he’d just lost.

“Gotta put it under my pillow!” he said, showing me the most recent tooth-sized space in his smile.

The next morning he came into my room (looking just a bit dejected) holding up the little snack-sized ziplock bag with the lonely little tooth inside.

“She forgot.” I said, mentally kicking myself. Damn, damn, damn! I always forget! Damn Tooth Fairy! I decided that at 10, Jack was old enough to know the truth. I’d just have to tell him that I was the tooth fairy. I went to the kitchen to grab my purse, and called out to Jack as I pulled out a couple ones from my wallet. He came in, saw the money, and asked, “What’s that for?”

I sighed. Here goes, I thought. “Well. I’m gonna buy your tooth off you.” I waited for the questions, the disbelief.

“Cool!” He grabbed the dollar bills, flashing the hole in his mouth yet again and started out of the room. “Hey mom?” Okay, now it’s coming. “Yes?”

“Maybe I’m just too old for the tooth fairy now,” he decided. “Would you buy all the rest of my teeth from me?”

“Sure, buddy.”

“Yes!”

On the way to school, he turned to me from the passenger seat, one eyebrow raised, “Mom? Are you the Tooth Fairy?”

“Well, Jack,” I answered matter-of-factly, “If I am, I’m not a very good one.”

He smiled, leaned in to kiss my cheek, and that was that.

…If you’re a pretender come sit by my fire, for we have some flax golden tales to spin. Come in! Come in!

I love my little day-dream believer.

May 18, 1997 - May 18, 2010

I am lucky enough to have a few very dear friends and a handful of incredibly supportive, family members. Today, I am thinking about one of them in particular. He is kind and generous. He is quiet and thoughtful. He has a wicked good sense of humor, great taste in books, and a talent he doesn’t yet realize with the written word. He is blessed with a great amount of patience that serves him well in life – and on the golf course.

He is my son.

Happy Birthday, Connor! Thirteen years ago today, I became a mom for the first time. As the first born, Connor has had to grow up with a mom who didn’t quite know what she was doing. I held him a little closer, rocked him a little longer, expected more, questioned everything, and made what I am sure were a great many mistakes. But Connor has exceeded every expectation I ever had in a son. And has given me more joy, more love, more happiness than I ever dreamed possible. Watching him grow from a quiet, timid child into a thoughtful, kind, generous young man has been nothing short of amazing.

Where has the time gone?! I’m looking forward to watching you mature as a teenager. You’ll make mistakes along the way. But it isn’t the mistakes that will shape you, but what you learn from them, that makes all the difference. Once again, your brother and sister have the advantage (or disadvantage?) of watching you go through these years first. So, we’ll learn together. I think we’ve done okay so far…