Where This Week Went. With Bonus Profanity.

It went in a cold snap.

One with lots of wind that made a rare opportunity to see a home track meet unfortunately very short.

To an afternoon of cleaning out my closet, of trying on every item of clothing I own and deciding:

I’m fucking done being neurotic about my body.

Life is too short, and forty is too awesome, for neurotic. Four bags of donated clothes later, somehow I feel like I have a new wardrobe. Less truly is more, sometimes.

The week passed with a meeting of my writers’ group, followed by a much-needed, greatly enjoyed lunch with the ever-fabulous Christine from Quasi Agitato. It passed in a sushi dinner with one old friend, and two new ones.

The week went to an ivory evening gown, which I bought four years ago at Nordstrom’s Rack in Chicago for only thirty-five dollars because it was pre-altered and had a heel hole in the train which my tailor sewed up for me so you can’t even tell.

I wore it to CC’s opening night, even though it doesn’t hide my stomach.

My only embellishments were red lipstick and my handsome, handsome husband. Away from me, someone told him I looked like a badass angel goddess.

That pretty much made my whole life.

This is a picture of me taking a picture of myself in my mirror. Just under my left elbow is my dress, folded over the back of the chair. We did not get a picture of ourselves at the shindig, partly because that useless little purse you carry with an evening gown doesn’t hold your lipstick, phone, car keys AND a camera. Hell, it won’t even hold a camera by itself. Or an epi-pen, I’m told. I considered putting the dress back on just for a picture here, but ultimately decided I was too lazy. Trust me though, we looked fabulous. Also, I am too lazy to figure out how to use the timer on the camera so that I don’t have to look like a douche holding the damn camera in the mirror. Hmm. . . this picture is a remarkably helpful illustration. Of nothing.

The week passed in six commutes, eight shows, eight onstage hangings and crucifixions. Eight times of laughing to myself out loud at the end of the night and saying, “Holy shit these guys are on fire!” because our band is that damn fantastic. It passed with one Drama Desk Best Sound nomination, followed by the crappiest show I’ve mixed here.

Well.

These things happen.

The week passed in a couple of yoga classes and some miles on the treadmill and an awful lot of staring myself down in the mirror saying yes I can when I really wanted to just stop.

And eat a cookie. Or ninety.

The week went to this thing in my refrigerator:

I can’t decide if I want someone to tell me what it is or not.

The week passed with Metallica, Sixx A.M. and My Chemical Romance. It was spent with my Uncle Tupelo station on Pandora.

It went to parenting that was neither funny nor satisfying- the ugly, unsettling kind that leaves you second guessing yourself while simultaneously knowing that, given the chance for a do-over, you would make the same decisions. You would still be left feeling sad and anxious and nauseous.

It passed with Jenny Lawson’s stupidly excellent book Let’s Pretend This Never Happened. She’s so awesome it pisses me off. I love her. I almost want to be her when I grow up except then it wouldn’t be as much fun to read her stuff. Which is the exact same reason why I don’t want to be a yoga teacher. Sort of. Also, I think I’m older than her, which would make being her when I grow up even more difficult.

The week went to lots of dog hair and stinky puppy feet, to puggle butts trotting through the cemetery as they sniffed about the freshly dead, of which there were many.

It went to a couple of fantastic mornings on my deck, listing things for which I am grateful. Like not being a reason that the cemetery is busy.

It went to Peanut Butter Puffins and skim milk. Skim, because it makes the best gooey-peanut butter milk at the end of the bowl. Trust me.

The week passed in many games of Scramble, with my sister and also my boss- whom, I am now certain, is cheating and has a ringer sitting in for him. Pretending. But still not winning.

It passed in saying goodbye to my two men as they went on a Scouting trip for the weekend.

It ends with not enough sleep in a bed that is far too empty, even with a puggle or two.

I hear myself say, “Where’d the week go?” but I know exactly where this week went.

Grace

Eight years ago today my nephew Mark was born.

I can’t think about Mark now without also thinking about my niece Colby, who was born in January of 2010. Both of them were born with different, fatal birth defects.

Mark had Anencephaly: A congenital absence of the brain and cranial vault, with the cerebral hemispheres completely missing or greatly reduced in size.

Colby had Trisomy-18: A genetic disorder in which a person has a third copy of genetic material from chromosome 18, instead of the usual two copies.

Years before Mark was born, I became aware that the way babies are allotted here on earth can at times seem remarkably unfair. I’ve known people desperate to conceive, who can’t; much-wanted babies who stayed only a short time; people completely unable to care for a child who do conceive despite precautions. It seemed to me that whoever was in charge of assigning the babies was either heartless or incompetent. I called bullshit on the phrase, “Everything happens for a reason.”

Mark and Colby taught me that there may be a greater hand at work.

Unless you have, or someone close to you has, experienced problems in pregnancy, you’re not thinking much about the possibility of problems, which is as it should be. You’re certainly not expecting to go in for an ultrasound to learn that your baby has a fatal birth defect.

Discovering there’s a problem is only the first step in what lies before you. Because then? You have to make a decision. Carry to term, or terminate? You have to weigh your decision against the cost to your soul.

Then you have to follow through on your decision. All the way.

What I know is nobody can make a decision about your baby for you. I also know that if you question the decision you made about your baby, it means you’re human.

In both of these cases, my sister and sister-in-law carried to term. They dealt with strangers coming up to them, patting their bellies, and making small talk about the baby. All the while, they didn’t know if their babies would be born alive, and if so, how much time they would get together. They dealt with the endless appointments and astronomical medical expenses. They dealt with their own fear while soothing that of their other children. They still deal with their own grief.

As far as that greater hand at work goes.

Mark and Colby pushed aside all of my preconceived ideas about The Way Things Should Be With Babies. What’s a lifetime? What’s a success? What is beautiful?

If you hold tightly to your idea of how you think things ought to be, you can miss out on the greatest things happening right in front of you:

Mark and Colby were both born alive. Many babies with these defects aren’t.
They both were born with hair! And itty bitty feet.
They got to be held and loved.
They brought the family together in unexpected ways.
Their brief lives were welcomed and celebrated.

We’re all left with many questions unanswered. Lots of Why’s. But if all our questions were answered in life, what would be the point of seeking? What would be the point of anything? Rarely is there an immediate answer to any Why. Why gets answered later, in its own time.

I’ve heard that grace is when god does for you what you can’t do for yourself. This, to me, is that greater hand at work. I still don’t use the phrase, “Everything happens for a reason.”. Yet I am at peace knowing that there very well may be reasons that simply haven’t been revealed yet, and I’m not actually entitled to all the answers.

You never “get over” something like this, whether you are a parent, grandparent, friend, or other relative. You are forever changed.

Beth and Dave, Jeff and Melissa, thank you. Thank you for your grace.

This post is a call to action to all of you: make today count, whatever that means for you. Always make today count.

Earth Day Our Way, or Carbon Footprint: We Has It.

Yeah, I know this is a day late for Earth Day. I was hoping my kids would do something heartwarming to celebrate Earth Day that I could report, some new way of showing concern for the environment, an Earth Awareness that would put me to shame, or hell, even something funny. They completely failed me though, thereby failing you, and the entire planet.

The only kid that did any observation of Earth Day was #3, who wore the Earth Day shirt she made at school last year. Being that she made it when she was twelve, and now she’s thirteen and a half, let’s just say she’s very impressed with. . . how differently it fits her this year. She wore the shirt while dutifully carrying out her chore of the day, which was cleaning all the bins and shelves from the refrigerator. With bleach.

I’m pretty sure all the other kids were chucking alkaline batteries down storm drains and melting water bottles with Zippo lighters.

My kids are obsessed with water bottles. The plastic, disposable, bad-for-the-entire-universe-not-just-our-planet kind. What can I say? Marketing works (hello, Aquapod people? Bite me). But there comes a time when even I can’t ignore something anymore, in this case the mind-boggling quantity of plastic bottles we were going through on a daily basis. Yes, we recycle them, but in New Jersey (a.k.a. The Soprano State), that doesn’t necessarily mean that they don’t end up in the same landfill as the trash. So a while back I spent a small fortune on stainless steel, eco-friendly water bottles. Everyone got their own in their favorite color. I got some extras. These were Their Water Bottles Forever. No more plastic.

They hated them. They fought me every step of the way. They would “forget” them, in school, in their lockers, in someone else’s car, under the bed, whatever. And hit me up for money for a bottle of water.

I actually suggested to #2 one day that she take a cup with her and fill it up at the water fountain at school since she didn’t know where her water bottle was. She went back upstairs and got her allowance money instead, and has had the decency not to remind me what an ass I am ever since. At least about that.

Over time, their feelings about reusable water bottles changed. Various incarnations are showing up now at the Dollar Store (and the Five Dollar Store– does anyone else have that? It’s new). They like the ones with the crazy designs on them.

The ones, which, when you put them in the dishwasher, start peeling paint. Rather than releasing BPA particles into the environment, they release little bits of toxic paint onto your lips, into your water. Awesome.

Don’t tell me they’re not supposed to go in the dishwasher. That’s the only chance in hell I have of killing the vomit bug that is always going around. Always. #4 is laying on the couch with a bucket as we speak.

Meanwhile, the four large, plain old stainless steel ones with no paint at all on them that I bought for CC and I? Have no idea what they did with those. I wouldn’t be surprised if #2 has them tucked away in a secret place and laughs maniacally every time I’m slamming around the kitchen because I can’t find a water bottle. That’s what I would do if I were her.

Happy Frickin’ Earth Day.