The other day I needed a small plate that sat on the highest shelf of my kitchen cabinet. There was no way I could reach it, even with a maximum stretch. And no one taller (i.e. ALL three of the other members of my household) was around to assist. My 46 year old auto pilot immediately engaged. I placed my hands on the counter’s edge, bent my knees, and prepared to hoist myself up to a standing positioning atop the granite and retrieve the plate.

This maneuver has been my method of choice to reach things in the kitchen since I was old enough to do so. But as I stood there ready to make the leap I thought better of it. Both my brain and my body whispered to me that this was no longer a good idea. I could pull a muscle, fall, or injure myself when I jump down. I chose instead to pull a kitchen chair over and stand on it to get the plate.

As I easily stepped up, I was overcome with the realization that the ex-gymnast, proud black belt, high energy girl I was will never climb atop the kitchen countertop again. I stood there in that moment and realized that this is what life looks like at the Top of the Hill.

It’s an interesting vantage point. I’m not ready to concede that I am Over the Hill, but I’m certainly not engaged in the same climb I was in my 30s and 40s. I’ve been noticing signs for months now – and it’s truly fascinating how life evolves without your permission.  A few examples for you:

My entry and exit into parking spaces has become more of a process. More often than not, I open my car door and feel like my park job is unacceptable. If I were Over the Hill, I’d just go with the first attempt and leave my van on (or slightly over) the line. But at the Top of the Hill, I climb back in and take my Mulligan (or two) to get it right.

There is technology out there that I will never use – not because I don’t know how (that would be Over the Hill) but because I have no need or desire to SnapChat, YikYak, or (truthfully?) ask Siri anything.

The music my kids play has gotten a ton louder. Or maybe the space in my head where that particular stimuli gathers has gotten much smaller. The latter reasoning is quite possible considering all the thinks and thoughts that swirl around my brain these days about life at the Top of the Hill. Regardless, “Turn it Down, please” has become part of the conversation. I don’t say “Turn it Off.” Yet.

If I were Over the Hill, my kids would think it cute for me to talk about how my “BAE was totally on fleek today.” But at the Top of the Hill, I am forbidden to attempt these words in public because that would be trying too hard.

I no longer panic at every pain, discomfort or feeling of weariness when it sets in. Most mornings, something hurts when I wake up and climb out of bed, but it usually wears off in short order. At the Top of the Hill, I have started avoiding trips to the doctor. I’ll know I’m Over the Hill when I look forward to those appointments so I can get out of the house.

I have stopped worrying when I am going to have sex and started worrying about when my kids are. Nothing to say here but Oy.

At one time, People, US Magazine and Cosmo used to be my not-so-secret vice. In the last year I’ve become decidedly not-so-interested, mostly because I don’t recognize half the celebrities in the Who Wore it Best feature. O Magazine is too touchy feely and Real Simple is pretty complicated. I have become cynical, but proud to note that I have not replaced any of these magazines with Redbook or Good Housekeeping.

Leaving the house with my “readers” has become almost as mission critical as remembering to bring my cell phone. I haven’t misplaced them yet (only to find them hanging around my neck). And I secretly like popping them on when I want to look more seasoned. But there is nothing cosmetic about my need for these puppies.

While life at the Top of the Hill may seem bleak, I assure you it is not. I have plenty of company up here and I have found that the true melding of each generation occurs in this scared place. We are ALL going through this getting older phase – and with shared experiences comes greater understanding and empathy for one another. Even though we don’t have an official name (unless you count Those People Between Baby Boomers and Generation X), I think my generation will embrace these universal truths together – as those who did before us.

For right now, I think I’ll stay up here for a while longer and enjoy the view.

Dear Chase,

Today is your 15th birthday. It is, by all measures, a day to celebrate your fantastic, jubilant and blessed life. And I am missing it.

Thank you for feigning shock and sadness when I told you that I really couldn’t blow off my firm offsite to watch you blow out your candles this year. If there was any element of real disappointment, you hid it well underneath your adorable melodrama. Clearly, we are on the cusp of a new relationship – an adult relationship – where you may, at times, find yourself comforting me as opposed to the other way around. I needed your permission to be absent today, and I am so very lucky that you have reached the age and maturity to grant it wholeheartedly. It almost makes me feel better

Almost.

For the past 15 years, I have woken you up each morning on this day with a gentle rendition of the Happy Birthday song. If the day was a school day, I made sure dinnertime had an element of celebration. Moms live for birthdays – especially yours. We don’t talk about it often, but it is as much a celebration for us as it is for you. The days you and your brother were born were indeed the most exciting, momentous, and meaningful days of my life. And an opportunity to relish that joy once a year is not easily forsaken.

Breathing the same air as you – on the occasion of your birth when you breathed that air for the very first time – has always been paramount to me. But here I am in Vermont at a work offsite. Out of cell range. But not without a connection to you. You will be on my mind all day for sure.

While this is the first birthday of yours I will miss, it will certainly not be the last. So, I am considering this year to be a timely harbinger of life to come – as it absolutely should. Already my presence on this day is beginning to feel ancillary to that of your friends. I am no longer the sole source of your happiness and nurturing – and that is a good thing. With every step you take in your own direction – away from Dad and me — I remind myself that I would never want it any other way.

Still, there is a part of me that will always need to be needed by you. So when you say it is okay that I am not here today, I am both relieved and sad. There is also a little voice that sometimes whispers in my head, asking, “Does he know how much I love him?” Missing your birthday doesn’t help me answer that question with a great deal of confidence. So I may have gone a little over the top this weekend, pre-emptively cramming in the birthday revelry meant for today. Thank you for celebrating on my schedule instead of yours.

And just one more thing while I have your attention: Had this been an ordinary birthday and I was around and able to partake in my goofy traditions, I may have just left it at that. But the distance this year compels me to tell you here what you would never stand for in a face-to-face conversation.

You – at 15 — are all kinds of awesome. You light up the lives of so many people, including mine. I am so very proud the person you have become. I will always love you quietly, but fiercely. I hope you know how much.

Happy Birthday, my sweet boy.

Love, Mom

This past week marked the beginning of seasonal depression for some.  While it’s safe to say that most of us appreciated the extra hour to sleep or shop or watch football last Sunday, come darkness at 5:00 p.m.,  and a collective groan could be heard across the land.  It was the top of conversation all week as if the return to standard time had never happened before.  I heard more than one lamenter remark that they “couldn’t believe” it was dark outside already.  The observation was followed by a long sigh, revealing, in fact, that they could indeed “believe it.”  They just didn’t like it.

I, however, did not join the Misery Chorus.

It wasn’t easy.  I share the love of Daylight Savings Time with my fellow sun chasers.  The opportunity to stretch those long, lazy days of spring and summer into warm dusky evenings is something I look forward to every season, mostly because the longer days go hand in hand with rising temperatures, which is where the true delight lies for me.  I’m not sure staying outside until 9:00 p.m. would have the same draw if it were 35 degrees and we were dressed in parkas instead of tank tops.

And herein lies why I don’t mind (dare I say enjoy?) the seasonal return to standard time.

When daylight savings time comes to an end, it is the Universe sending us an important message.  Whereas summer time propels us out of our homes, urging us to spread out and expand our longitudes and latitudes, standard time beckons us inward, compelling us to gather close.  The warmth we seek is waiting for us in our homes, where lights glow, meals are warm, and a cozy blanket on a cold night is all we need to feel safe and happy.

These are the days of soup and fire places… of hot chocolate and fleece slippers… of staying in and snuggling on the sofa under an afghan as the wind whips up outside.  As I walk the dog down my street, I pull my coat just a little tighter around me and fondly seek the light coming from neighbors’ windows, behind which I know families are gathered, eating dinner, doing homework, watching the early news, and being together.  I pick up my pace and head for the light which I know best, where my own family waits to spend the evening hunkered down, creating our a warmth that is almost tribal in its intent.

Without the cold and the dark, how could we ever fully appreciate the light and radiance of our homes?

In perfect rhythm, our temperatures dropped precipitously this past week – and promise to plummet in the days ahead.  It happens every year, reminding us that warmth can always be found on the inside.  So when it’s 5:00 p.m. and dark as pitch outside, consider it a calling to gather with your people, be grateful for your opportunities to shelter yourself with others, and know that all is as it should be.

Does anyone else in your class still purchase these pictures??

Noah and I were assessing this year’s school photographs which were delivered to the students on Friday.  I had purchased Package D – the least money I could spend to get my hands on a single 5×7 to update the picture frame in my office.  It cost me $22 plus tax – and it came with two 3×5’s, four wallet sizes, and nine really small photos which I can only guess are for people who want to fit two pictures into a single sleeve in their wallet.

However, these people do not exist.

Because I don’t think anyone carries photos in their wallets anymore.  It wasn’t THAT long ago when I would respond to an inquiry about how my boys were doing by whipping out my trusty money holder and handing it over so people could view their growing faces through the smudgy plastic.  I wouldn’t do that today any faster than I would stop by a record store or watch the 6 o’clock news to get the weather report.

Because WE are an advanced society.

These days if someone asks me how my kids are, they wait patiently while I flip through the gallery on my phone, so that I can find just the right shot to share.

At some point during that search, I will find a 5 minute video of the school marching band, at which point I stop and treat the well-intended victim to some live action.  These are moments that mean so much to me – and simultaneously equate to minutes my companion will never get back.  I admire Lifetouch, the school portrait service, who is still fighting the good fight to keep our lives a little bit simpler by continuing to put our kids where they belong — in our wallets.

And, according to Noah, they are winning.

He responded to my question quickly and without thinking:  Of course the other kids purchase the photos.  This reality was confirmed by Chase who, a few hours later, dug out his own photos and shared them with me.  Yup – most people still get them, a fact that first relieved, and then fascinated me.  I certainly didn’t want my boys to lose any street cred in the mean halls of our suburban high school by being the only ones walking around with Package D all day.  For all I know, this parenting purchasing behavior could have stopped in elementary school and I never got the memo.  But the boys looked at me like this was a no-brainer which says to me that many parents continue to buy into this incredibly dated service, year after year.  And for what?

I get my 5×7 – and offer the 3×5’s and wallets to the grandparents, bringing the annual utility of Package D up to about 25%.  The rest of the photos remain in the crinkly envelope with the plastic viewing window, joining the other envelopes from past years in my storage closet.  The boys never touch them – or want them.  The physical “hard copy” of their faces cannot compete with their own strategically posed, well timed, and  online selfies which comprise their identities.  LifeTouch knows their market – and its certainly not the kids smiling at them awkwardly for the camera.

As I trimmed down my 5x7s on Sunday morning, I wondered why I (and others) buy into school pictures every year. Maybe it’s a generational thing that offers me a comforting tether to my own childhood.  Or perhaps it’s another guilt-induced, annual exercise in “it’s what good parents do.”  I do believe this credo plays heavily into the fact that I NEVER throw away the multitude of identical photos  living in my closet, because I might as well throw away MY OWN CHILDREN.

Actually, I think my “Lifetouch buy-in” is exactly as it sounds.  Life.  Touch.

Once a year, I purchase a touchstone from their lives. While I may be mildly frustrated by the unused mini-wallets, these photos guarantee a souvenir of my sons’ childhoods, presented in such a way that I can take in changes in their faces… and the evolution of their being.  Even the years when the quality of the portraits have something to be desired, it is still very much them smiling back at me, another year older but the same kid at the core.

Over the last decade, I have watched both my blond haired children grow into dark haired young men against varied colored backdrops donning different, collared “picture day” shirts.  Their faces have narrowed; their jaws have become more angled.  This year, I observed that Noah always chooses not to show his teeth when he smiles; his grin has been closed lipped since second grade.  Chase’s Adam’s Apple made its debut this year, or at least I noticed this time around.  Both boys chose to wear black without consulting one another, more out of fashion-sense than anything political or moody.

Another year gone by.  Another time stamp on the card of life.

The side-by-side 5×7 photos grace the desk in my office; the others are snipped and awaiting delivery to the grandparents.  The leftovers will live on, joining their younger siblings in the brown paper bag in the closet, only to be disposed of in the event of my death.  What felt like an antiquated service desperately trying to stay relevant in an age of digital over load suddenly feels like something I would miss terribly if it was discontinued.

Well played, Lifeouch.  Well played.

Almost 17 years ago, I gave birth to the moon in my sky.  I didn’t know it at the time, but this tiny creature would beckon my heart towards him with a gravitational force for which I had no defenses.  Intense, deep feeling and luminous, my oldest child has been a constant presence whose moods ebb and flow with the tide.  At times, he offers just a sliver of himself, but that crescent is brilliant in its clarity.  And when that boy shines full and bright, I bask in his beauty and wholeness, even though I know it is a fleeting glow.  I’ve gotten comfortable with the cycles of my moon, and together we ride the lower lows, the higher highs and the various ascents and declines in between.  Noah, my moon, is the light I never grow tired of seeking.  Although my quests are often unnecessary for he regularly finds me first.

The answer to my moon is, of course, my sun.  My youngest is confident, radiant, and bold, warming all those in his presence.  Even when the darkest of clouds swirl around him, I never doubt that his strength and vibrancy will prevail.   And though it is easy to be drawn to him, getting close – or letting your eyes linger on him too long – is difficult.  I’m not sure I will ever know how deep his fire burns or what truly fuels him, but perhaps his existence in my world is enough.  He is the source of energy for our family, always beaming, seemingly unencumbered by everyday worries he probably deems too trite to acknowledge.  Chase, my sun, rarely dims, leaving me perplexed as to his needs for mother earth.  I stand by, just in case.

How two children brought into and raised in this world by the same people can be so polar opposite will forever be one of life’s great mysteries.  They remain the strongest of presences, in my sky and in my heart.  And while I adore them both in ways they may never understand, I experience them so differently, with that divide growing wider over time.  One son seems to be on this earth to be studied and understood by a precious few, while the other is destined to be enjoyed by the masses.  As I implore my moon to lighten up, I plead with the sun to go deeper.  I’m regularly pulled in strongly by my moon while simultaneously pushed gently away by my sun.  Silently, my heart speaks to them:

Never in the same sky, the unique orbs my children emit and the varied shadows they cast have become the yin and yang of my existence.  I stand here on earth, watching them rise and fall, day after day, in awe of their distinct impact on me and the world around them.  My wonder is matched only by my gratitude, which I send to the Universe for the gift of balance I have been given.  May their lives rarely eclipse one another and may their unique lights always shine bright.

By August of this year, I had been blogging for 6 years, 2 months, 3 weeks and not-going-to-bother-with hours.  And I was pretty tired.  When that first Sunday night came and went and I didn’t even try to squeeze something out of my head, the rest felt so good.  In fact, I enjoyed the break so very much that I gave myself permission to do the same thing the following Sunday, even having the conversation in my head about not explaining my absence either.  And so went the rest of August.  September came and I spent my Sunday nights strapping myself to the weekly catapult, packing myself and the boys, for the week ahead.  There seemed to be no time to write during the weekly preparation for launch.  So I just didn’t.

Frankly, I wasn’t sure anyone noticed.  And honestly, I didn’t know how to feel about it.  If no one cared that I wasn’t writing, WTH have I been doing for the last 6 years, 2 months…. yeah, you get the picture.  But at the same time, if no one cared, then I am free NOT to write.  That feels more than a little liberating.  Hmmm. I spent a few more weeks meditating on this reality.

And then gradually, people started to notice.  Or perhaps they had noticed before but it took a while to say anything.

Chase was the first to tell me that his lunch table was asking about why I wasn’t writing.  The fact that my blog was a topic of conversation at the freshman lunch table at my son’s high school could perhaps be the highest form of praise I will ever receive.  Of course, he went on to tell me that his friends thought that blogging was my actual job – so perhaps they were concerned for our livelihood.  But still, I was completely humbled.  Then, a very nice woman in the check out line at the grocery store asked me if I was the blogger at MoB.  She actually recognized me and it was very cool of her to say so.  She noticed that I hadn’t been writing as well.  And of course, my Mom would drop the occasional gentle probes.  Thank goodness. If Mom doesn’t miss me, might as well hang it up here and now.

The recognition was a nice ego boost, but it’s the itch that brings me back.  There is a great deal of “stuff” going on in the world – and not a day goes by that my writing muscle doesn’t snag itself on some passing news item, interaction, gut wrenching feeling, or wave of gratitude.  The words start lining up in their queue in my head, but then disintegrate as my attention is drawn away.  These fits and starts are happening with greater frequency, so I’m thinking its time to return to these pages and share these thoughts.

I’m sorry I left without any explanation.  Unlike Forrest, my writing days are far from over.  I may adjust the cadence of my posts – so that the best of my work comes through here.  But as I sit here on Sunday afternoon, typing away, it feels pretty darn good to be back.

I hope you have all been well.  We’ll talk soon.

While my “spidey-sense” was constantly tingling when Noah was in Israel, I kept it together most of the time and operated at fair degrees of normalcy.  I worked, I ate, I slept (yes, believe it or not), and held my own in conversations with other people, all according to my usual M.O.  There were, however, a few periods when I was too worried to function.  When a rogue rocket from Lebanon hit in the town where Noah was staying, when the airlines banned all flights to and from Tel Aviv within days of his departure, and when I found out that the kids’ flight path home took them over the Ukraine, I ceased caring about much else besides the situation right in front of me.

Issues that would normally have me wringing my hands and fretting over outcomes became immediately inconsequential.

• Work deadline?  Uh…. not happening.
• Happiness of my “other” child still ensconced in our home?  He’s imperfectly safe here in America.
• Cat that had decided to stop using her litter box?  We’ll figure out where she is peeing soon enough.

None of it mattered.  Even how I worried about Noah changed drastically.  At one point, we spoke with him on the phone and he complained of a sore throat, a condition that normally would have me obsessing about the medical care he was getting, and whether he was suffering.  Yet, given that at that particular time, we didn’t know how he was getting home, my reaction fell somewhere in between:  “Do you have any Advil left?” and “Suck it up, Kid, as long as you’re not calling me from a bomb shelter, it’s all good.”  I had very little concern for how much fun he was having, whether he was getting along with the group, or how much he was eating, spending or sleeping.

And poor Chase, the dutiful younger brother to whom I will someday apologize for dumping at camp in the Pocono Mountains during this time without much more than a high five.  I think we slowed the minivan down so he could jump out.  I’m not sure – it was all quite a blur and much different from previous years when we lingered with all the other parents, needing to fully assess his well being leaving him for four weeks.

My BIG Worry about Noah’s safety completely suffocated all my smaller worries.  And in some twisted sick way, it was liberating to let all that other stuff go, if only for a short time.

I began to visualize my fears as balloons filling up the finite amount of space I had in my heart and mind for such things.  We all have different capacities for anxiety – some larger, some smaller – and we fill whatever space we have with our concerns.  Usually, my Worry Chamber is filled with balloons of small to medium size – with a bit of room left over for daily fire drills, running late and the scale that has been going in the wrong direction..  I have been very blessed thus far to have so few times in my life when nothing else matters but a single mega  concern.  But as terrifying as something that large might be, it does provide perspective about what truly matters.

People with BIG problems tend to seem overly gracious, calm and often at peace about the world that surrounds their pain.  It may be because they are Zen-like people to begin with, but I think it also has a great deal to do with the fact that there isn’t any room to sweat the small stuff.

When Noah’s plane landed at JFK Airport on Sunday night, my Big Worry completely deflated.  I enjoyed the vacant space for a few hours, before my smaller worries reappeared, much to my annoyance, and took their rightful place in my Worry Chamber.

The big worries consume you, the smaller ones chip away at your soul day by day.  I hadn’t realized how many tiny anxieties were going on with me until I cast them aside.   I wish somehow we could gain the perspective that comes with big worries without having to suffer through them.  Until then, I’ll remind myself and my kids that if I’m worried about the length of the lawn, the score of the math test, or the on-time arrival of my next flight, we are a very lucky family indeed.

Today I am writing you a letter you will likely never read.  It is Sunday afternoon and by the time I post this tomorrow morning, you will be landing in Warsaw, Poland, embarking on a 5 week journey which, after a week in Europe will bring you to Israel, where I am told you will have the experience of a lifetime.  I should not expect to hear from you very often, so I assume that means you will be too busy to catch up on my blog while you are gone.  Herein lies the opportunity to release some of the unexpected emotion that has been building inside of me in recent weeks as we prepared for your departure.   I have been extremely mindful not to give myself away, not to let you know that the thought of you being more than 5700 miles away – a 12 hour plane ride – has been wreaking havoc on my heart.

There is a false security in proximity.  I have little fear of you traveling to summer camp, a 90 minute car ride away, and even less fear when you go local — to the movies or head out to school each morning.  With all that is happening in this country with random, senseless gun violence, statistically, you might be safer in Israel. At least that is what I have been telling myself.  It is part of the two sided conversation I have which pits the throngs of American teenagers that have successfully gone before you against everything that could possibly go wrong while you are away from me.

Do you remember when you were a little boy and you had a scrape that needed disinfecting?  When the Bactine burned I told you that it was “the good germs fighting the bad germs” – and that the good germs were WINNING!  Well, that’s kinda what’s going on with me.  The good Mom who knows this experience is so important to you is fighting with the bad Mom who just wants to keep you close for a little bit longer.  With an hour left to go before your departure, the good Mom is poised to win…. but the battle hurts.

As I sat with my Blue Sharpie yesterday, marking your initials on the inside of your socks, I was overcome with the fact that this was the last act of care I could complete before you left.  There I was, writing “NM” thirty times on socks that have odds of making it home of about 50 to 1.  I watched as the marker bled into the fabric, making my N’s and M’s look like some sort of miniature Rorschach tests.  Well, hopefully you will be the only kid with that particular design and you will be reunited with enough socks to keep your feet dry for the duration of the trip.  I hope someday you will understand the weirdness that comes with parenting, but I just have to say that I have never loved you more than I did when I was labeling your socks.

I asked you if you were nervous about anything and you admitted that you were most concerned about the flights.  I smiled and told you that all would be fine, knowing that I can’t make any promises except to be a source of comfort for your fears.  You asked if I was nervous about anything – and I lied again, casually quipping that I just want you to have a great time.  But the truth is:  I am nervous about everything and I can’t wait for you to come home.  Its not unlike the first time you walked home from school by yourself.  I fretted mightily that day, but every day after that became easier until I didn’t even think about it anymore.  I am hoping that is what is in store for me on this trip.  Because right now I feel like someone is ripping my heart out of my chest and setting it free – unprotected – somewhere across the world.

Thank you for giving your brother an unprecedented amount of your time in your final hours before departure.  It would have been easier if you were fighting today; I would have been quicker to usher you into the car and away from the bickering.  Instead I hear you jamming in the music room, you on guitar, Chase on drums.  Soon, just drums.  Ok, I’m losing it.  IT IS ONLY FIVE WEEKS, I know.   I hope you miss the shit out of each other.

I don’t want you worrying about much over there.  In anticipation of the travel snafus that often come with a long trip, I told you not to worry about losing things – that everything can be replaced, and fairly quickly at that.  But that’s not exactly true.  I fully expect to lose a piece of you on this journey that will never be replaced.  It’s the part of you that needs your Mom to label your socks.

Oh, and I’m sorry that I cried when you left.  Be grateful that I couldn’t join you and  Dad at the airport because then I would have cried in public.  I am actually pretty proud of myself that it was only a few crocodile tears — and not a bawling snot cry.  Please know, my son, that it is a privilege to have someone cry for you.  I hope that as long as you are on this earth, there will always be another person who loves you that much.

I will keep busy while you are gone, although its tempting just to wring my hands and pace for the next 35 days.  You be sure to keep yourself happy and safe – and I will do the same here.  We owe this journey to each other.

I can’t wait to hear all about it; I can’t wait for you to come home.

Love, Mom

xxoo

When my boys were tiny, I remember teaching them how to throw a ball. For these little guys, success was in understanding the mechanics of the throw. If they released the ball too early, it went nowhere, maybe even falling behind them. Holding on too long produced an even more disastrous result with the ball slamming into the ground in front of them. But, after a few misfires, they soon figured out that there was an opportune time to let go, and it was then that the ball traveled the furthest.

Now, years later, as these same boys are ready for takeoff, I myself am trying to figure out the right time to let go so that these fabulous human beings can fly as far as they possibly can.

Nobody tells you about this part when you are pregnant.

Sure, intuitively you realize that this time will come someday, but practically you cannot prepare yourself for how it all goes down, slowly, almost unnoticeably, and moment by moment. It begins with the slightest hesitancy to step in. After years of paving the way, enabling connections, and making decisions for your sweet child who is far too naïve and vulnerable to go it alone, you begin asking yourself, “Is my involvement appropriate here?” The well-placed doubt keeps you in your seat as your child is hit with baseballs; it keeps you silent when they are saddled with a ton of homework; and it keeps you off the phone when they are treated unfairly. You no longer can choose his friends, fight his fights, or make his choices without seeming overbearing.

So you do the next best thing.

Sure, you are no longer on the field with your kid, but you are coaching from the sidelines. You offer advice which is heard about half the time and heeded even less than that. Sometimes, you yell louder and more often in hopes that your wisdom will get through. You tell yourself that perhaps he didn’t actually hear you the first time, or maybe you didn’t explain yourself well, or perhaps he didn’t understand the urgency of your words. On occasion you step back on the field to lead him to where he needs to be, but from there you look around and shamefully realize that you are the only grownup playing. So, you slink back to the sidelines and watch him make mistakes which you pray are little, and recoverable.

And before long, your advice stops flowing unsolicited. Your authority is optional. You wait in hopes of being asked for guidance or assistance.  After years of carrying this child around on your shoulders, you are relegated to serving as the safety net, a critically important and sporadically satisfying job with all the glory of a street sweeper. You wake up one day and there is a fully formed person eating breakfast at your table, complete with ideals, ethics, mannerisms, and idiosyncrasies that are shockingly not identical to your own, despite your very best efforts to produce a clone. You are no longer in the game, your head coaching days are largely gone.  You have become a spectator.

At that point you wonder, “Am I done?”

The answer, of course, is no. But now the work shifts from your child back to yourself as you come to terms with all that you did wrong in raising this person — and celebrate every last thing you did right. You inevitably realize that he turned out nothing like you dreamed he would, and you love him fiercely anyway.  You laugh at yourself for ever believing you could have known how this game would go. You seek out his face and listen to the tone of his voice for clues of happiness or despair. You pray that he has retained the best pieces of advice you have given, and forgotten about those times when you lovingly failed him. You continue cheer him on, encourage him all the while praying for nothing but fair weather in his life.  You make sure he knows you will always be there watching over him.  Then… you let him go.

And, in doing so, you become what you were always meant to be — a fan.

-Ernest Hemingway

When I first started writing with the intent of others reading my words, I didn’t get why writers were stereotyped as such tortured souls. Back then, over a decade ago, the sentences flew from my heart through my fingertips to the key board and onto the screen. Submissions were largely met with success – and every publication was a celebration. I was a happy writer, with the highest hopes and the lowest levels of frustration. The craft came easily; but, then again, I had a great deal of material pent up, a pipeline rich with experiences I couldn’t wait to share.  I didn’t know the creativity wouldn’t always flow.

Now, years later, I’m still a happy writer, but I understand the angst. I’ve sat staring at my computer screen with nothing to give. I read my own words back to myself and called them out for the crap that they were.  I’ve abandoned lofty projects far sooner than I ever would have imagined. I know that writing takes an internal energy and external inspiration that most days do not fall from the sky and land simultaneously into your lap. You need to seek out both and, in doing so, sometimes you bleed.

And bleeding loves company.

I first saw this blog series that asked writers to blog about their writing processes on the pages of Lindsey Mead Russell’s A Design So Vast and was struck by the different motivations we each had for writing. Lindsey seeks to capture her life – and in doing so gives us the beautiful gift of her words. I am driven by offering my thoughts to the world – and, in the end, I have captured my life. We are essentially mirrors of one another in this regard.

I lost track of the series as it shot off into the blogosphere, but was thrilled when it came back around through my dear friend Jessie Braun who co-blogged with me at Mothers of Brothers before launching her own site No Cigarettes, No Bologna, which I read religiously every week.  There are very few writers who I read, and then say to myself, “Damn, I wish I wrote that!” But Jessie is one of them. I know how hard she toils at her craft but man, she makes it look easy. Jessie has a way of pulling you into her world and into her head where she lets you hang out for a while. Once she pushes all of your buttons, pulls at all of your heartstrings, and tickles your funny bone, out you go back to your own world, but hers tends to stay with you. Thank you Jessie for tagging me and letting me play along.

Here are the questions… and my answers.

What am I working on?

For the last five years (or more) I’ve been working on finding the time and energy to embark upon a larger project beyond my weekly blog here at Mothers of Brothers. I write each week as a means of keeping my writing muscle strong, but I have yet to truly commit myself to something more. Its not unlike training for a marathon, but never signing up to run one. I’m terribly frustrated in this regard, but only with myself.

My inertia on this front is not for lack of ideas. I really want to write the Mothers of Brother book – before someone else does. And that project is a matter of taking the time to curate my favorite posts from the blog and string them together into a narrative that flows really nicely and hits various targets along the way. Simple enough, right? Well, the next part is finding an agent and selling said book, a path which I went down a few years back which left me rather wary of the publishing process. But I do think it is worthy of trying again. Those who know my writing understand that that this book wouldn’t be about how to handle the rough and tumble, booger and fart-laced life that comes with the stereotypical life with sons. I feel there is are cerebral and emotional elements to raising boys that are often overlooked – yet still play a huge part in the process. My book would be the “thinking Mom’s” book about their sons – and I hope it would take readers places worth going.

I have also written a children’s book which requires a kick-ass illustrator who I have yet to seek (or find), beyond a few light inquiries. I love the concept of this book which focuses on the poignant, often unanswerable questions children ask their parents from when they are young to adulthood. My vision involves beautiful fantastical, pages that tell this story beyond the words I have written. If any of you MoB readers know of such an artist, please let me know. This project would be a true partnership.

I also have a memoir in my head about my teenage years which were spent embedded at a townhouse complex populated with fractured families and broken people. And there is a fiction book with the working title “Spin” about the world of financial PR that is not so loosely based on characters, egos and heroes I have met during my career.  Both of these projects frighten me for different reasons.

So at the time of this post, I have yet to dive into any of these efforts with great fervor. Lack of energy? Lack of courage? Lack of rigor? In a few weeks I’m scheduled to spend some time with my beloved Tribe in Manzanita, Oregon where I hope to explore some of the obstacles keeping me from these endeavors. Because one of my greatest fears in life is coming to the end and regretting those things I didn’t do.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I don’t really classify my genre as “mommy blogging.” My aversion to the term is more substantive than high mindedness. No one calls me “Mommy” anymore (unless I’m being treated to the classic Family Guy rendition of Stewie’s “Mom Mama Mommy.”) And I don’t limit my themes to just parenting. From my very first piece that was ever published about losing one’s identity when becoming a parent, I have focused on my journey as a human being first, and a parent second. I have conversations with myself all the time about situations, experiences, spells that I have gone through, and to the extent that I can transpose those selfie discussions onto the page, I feel successful – and perhaps unique.

I also like to mix it up. Like my life, my words are sometimes funny, sometimes sad, often full of angst, and occasionally laced with the gratitude I vow to express more often. I try to strike a balance on my blog and rotate the serious with the silly from week to week. I do pay particular attention to my voice and am very cognizant of how my words might make people feel. If there is any question that something I write might embarrass or hurt someone, I don’t go there. On particularly touchy subjects that involve other people, I will show them a preview and seek permission. No one has ever asked me not to write something I showed them.

I do try to speak with my own voice throughout my work, which of course brings up a slew of insecurities. I worry most about being too preachy, too narrow minded, or too privileged in my opinions. On the handful of occasions when my writing has been controversial, I have a different conversation with myself, and reinforce the need for starting a public dialogue about whatever topic is causing the commotion. Criticism and different opinions are welcome; threats and anonymous anger freak me out. Also, this is probably not unique to me but the rhythm of the words on the page are important to me. I read back to myself everything I write, and edit according the cadence as much as the content. My favorite sentences are the ones that sing to me.

Why do I write what I do?

I have always said that I write to resonate. But it goes a little deeper than that. I really write to make people feel good – because that makes me feel good. When someone relates to my experiences and perspective, there is a little slice of unity created. And the more we can tether ourselves together through universal experiences, hopes, disappointments, fears and victories, the better off we are. My motivation may sound selfless – but it’s not. Call it middle child syndrome, but I am most certainly a pleaser – and a giver. And the joy and satisfaction I get when I hit the bulls eye of someone else’s heart is addictive. It is but one way I can matter in this world, and the thought of squandering such an opportunity keeps me writing.

How does my writing process work?

Oh my. It is always the damn process that makes this writing thing no fun at all. Like Jessie, I try to “think” about my words before I put my fingers on the keys. (And no, I NEVER write longhand, which makes me feel a little inferior to those that do, but the screen is what works best for me.) Also like Jessie, the car and the shower are my two favorite places where I am often the most relaxed and ideas just start to flow. I have also had some very good brainstorms while playing soccer with my dog. And sometimes, when I’m super tired, I lie to myself and say that I am going to think about my next post in bed, only to fall fast asleep within minutes of my head hitting the pillow.

A few years back when I was hoping to write more than think less, I focused on doing “morning pages.” So many writers swore by them, and I believed that as long as you could stick with it, those pages would become a God send. Well, it took a few days but I soon found myself hating the morning pages. I cursed them; resenting them for the early hour and the obligation of writing, even when I had nothing to say. No one was ever going to read them anyway, so why bother? So sorry, Julia Cameron. Not for me.  It’s heresy.  I know.

So these days, I write on Sunday evenings, usually after dinner in my office where I work professionally. The amount of time I spend at my desk is a little frightening and something I think I have to work to change. I often have an idea in mind when I sit down, but no clear path until I make it past the first paragraph, which is always the hardest for me. But from there, I can quickly meander through a narrative – often jotting down notes further down the page if something strikes me but is not ready to be said just yet. I do all my work in Word, then transfer to WordPress, and add an image or two. I do try to proofread to varying degrees of success. Whenever I finish a piece in the evening, I go to be feeling accomplished and happy.  I hit “publish” first thing Monday morning – usually before 8:00 a.m. And then at some point in the middle of the day I’ll take 2 minutes and throw a link up on Facebook and Twitter for my followers.

I read all the comments wherever they are made – on the blog itself or on Facebook. I rarely write back – simply because I don’t have much time each week to do so. I admire those folks who do have time for those important conversations – but I hope my readers know that I love hearing from them and read every word they write to me.

The best pieces – the ones I know are worthy of a larger audience – I offer to Huffington Post or sometimes the Philadelphia Inquirer where I have the chance to work with some great editors. But I am very choosy about what I put out to the larger audiences – the difference between signing to your family and belting something out at Carnegie Hall. It really needs to be ready for prime time.

I hope, someday, more of my work will feel this worthy.  Thanks to all of you who tell me that it is — and for bearing with me when it’s not.  You really are the reason I write.  xxoo

*******

There are many writers and bloggers from whom I would love to hear answers to these questions. My friend and Tribe sister Meghan is one. Meghan is not only a beautiful, honest writer, but she is also a fantastic photographer who is poised to meld these two talents together into some amazing work. As I have embarked upon my creative journey, it is Meghan who has taught me about the importance of community and camaraderie along the way. I encourage you to read her words next week, but also dive into her website for a glimpse at her striking photography and reflections on her unique path.