You Are Home To Me…

Dear XXXXX,

I love you. You are home to me.

In the living room, music is playing. Here, in my mind’s eye, I see both your home and mine; separate but jumbled together. It began with James Taylor’s soft ballads & Norah Jones’ sweet melodic vocals followed by Rascal Flatts. There are Ocean Melodies in the background & as I look up at an arched window I remember a Monterey memory. I see a misplaced man texting a woman at night while she grieves for her dad, lying on a mattress while friends are visiting from out of town. Music frequently leads to slow dancing, concerts with a piano leads to laughter, and salsa dancing in the City ends with a wee bit of jealousy. Colbie Caillat’s song, “Realize” and a live performance leads to being reunited. There are so many that seem to speak to us: “1,2, 3, 4” and “Say hey I love you,” as well as others. In the living room sits the piano & a man who is writing a song using mainly 4 notes…it is unfinished but it is going to be beautiful, I just know it. Will I ever hear it?

The kitchen and dining room have memories of a turkey dinner that was a challenge we conquered together, chocolate strawberries & Champaign, salad suppers, blueberries, yogurt and almonds…it is a metal chair with two people. In this room, I see the Viking school lesson & the repeated performance with you and I. I see restaurants with chicken Caesar salad, salmon, mozzarella, tomatoes & basil or bruscetta appetizers coupled with a glass of Rombauer chardonnay & a lemon drop. The kitchen is place of conversations & meals & food & family & friends. It is 2 people trying to feed their children healthy meals. It is a place with a newly begun tradition of Sunday suppers. There’s lots of laughter at a table with a black bench & a bouquet of flowers. Mainly there is love, even more palatable than the meals served upon the tables we both own.

The family room consists of games played, movies watched, basketball & CAL. It is symbolic of STOMPing, cowbells & cheering. It is triathlons. It is shooting hoops. There are sleepovers for friends. Climbing onto roofs, building zip lines & hammocks outside, an extension of the family room. Walks along the beach, drives to vineyards and other places left to explore. Family rooms are for cozy corners on couches. Reading, learning, watching inspirational speakers or asking difficult questions all take place in the family room. I see barbeques with friends and family. There are bikes; one is alone & sometimes joined with a pack of others or a reluctant teenage rider. The second bike is joined by two more, both smaller in statue. Never the first. With that, I am left wondering why.

The bathroom is for caring for a toothache, sore knees soaking in a tub & shaving in the early morning. It is filled with vitamins & supplements that are lovingly shared & small travel-sized samples. There are towels that are gently used to absorb evidence of time spent together. In the closet a black hair dryer resides. The scene is as varied as the rooms in which we traveled: Monterey, Carmel, Napa, the City, Hawaii, XXXXX Road & XXXX Street.

In the bedroom there are a multitude of conversations; some from habit, some with urgency & some just because. It is honest. It is real. It is painful. Loving. Learning. Exciting. It has a Kennedy boy shirt, gray sweatpants, a variety of pj’s, silk and more. It has a favorite spooning position, “Position A.” It is sensual. It is messy. It is shopping for mattresses, the removal of pillows and 300 thread count cotton sheets. It is plastic bottles of water replaced by glasses that are environmentally friendly. There is the sound of the clicking of clock radios being turned on and times adjusted and a ticking watch. There is tender love, sometimes candles or music and soft lights. Love in this room in particular is new for the girl. She feels safe, secure and wanting to learn more, experience more and be together more. Always there is love.

And so…

Lastly, I think of an object, not a room. A computer. Computers. All white, all Macs. It is where this home was built, on an Internet highway. We’ve shared ideas, reflections, photos & ponderings. We’ve sought advice, friendship and decided to marinate or reflect. Together we’ve seen the death of a father and a company, the birth of our relationship & the continued ones we share with our ex’s because of the five greatest accomplishments we've created together, our children. We’ve both written poetically, metaphorically & in a brutally honest fashion without the intent to hurt or maim. So it would seem, that our “home” would end here on the computer as well. I have loved building it together with you. I suppose we missed the key piece. Our foundation. Mine is solid & you are discovering whether yours is built on sand, dirt, pebbles or cement. I sincerely wish that you will find a place to call, “Home Sweet Home.”

Love to you and yours,

XXXXX

"Him"

I have avoided writing about him. The moniker him does not refer to the father of my children (as mentioned previously, that would be my "EX" to whom I was married for 17 years and to whom our divorce took an additional 4 years to complete...that is fodder for another time).

Who is he? He is someone I met on the Information Highway through an online dating service. I've written about beginning to sign up and then chickening out on two previous occasions, but this time was different. I had been separated for four years and our divorce was finally complete. I'd gone back to counseling to sort through the why and how of it all, read books and consulted friends and family... I was consciously trying not to make any repeated mistakes.

I finally settled on a site that seemed somewhat more reliable. As an elementary teacher at the time, how else was I going to meet someone? Certainly not at work! The blind dates weren't working, the men I'd met while out and about weren't working either. And frankly, I had made more than a few mistakes along the way which I didn't feel particularly proud of regarding a suitable partner. At this point in time, I fully intended to meet someone (ever heard of the "Power of Intention" people??). The final nail was when my two daughters pulled me aside after the holidays and said it was, "Time to get back on the market." And to "Dress cute because you never know who you might meet, mom." I took that as a sign to get serious about this dating business.

I'd done my homework. I'd come up with a list of "Must-Haves" and "Can't-Stands" to serve as a litmus test of sorts. Now that may sound easy enough, but truly it wasn't. I agonized over the 50 on each list, for a 100 total. I prioritized them, I numbered them, I reflected and marinated on all of the attributes that were really, really important to me. I rearranged them. Finally, I had a list of 10 in each category for 20 total. I decided I would hold them up to my heart and head as I began this new regime of dating with a purpose.

And so it began. I took a picture in front of my computer, just a simple photo of me in a t-shirt and sweater...army green and brown no less (not my most flattering color combo with blue eyes and blonde hair). I completed the exhausting questionnaire and received feedback about my personality as a result. I finally hit, "Make Me A Match." Several emails and a few phone calls followed. The way this particular site works is you read an abbreviated profile about the "Match" and they do likewise. Next questions follow, and so on until you reach, "Open Communication." At this point he called. He had a pleasant voice, made me laugh and we agreed to meet in a neighboring town. The funny thing is his picture was not a piece of the equation up until we'd agreed to meet. I believe he had kept his photo private until that stage in the dating process. To be honest, it was not a flattering photo. But fortunately for both of us, I had entered this dating process with an open mind and decided I would just wait and see what happened.

And so it began. We met for dinner (note: do not EVER do this on a first date; the whys and hows I'll save for a future dating handbook of sorts...surmise it to say the potential for disaster is too great). Surprisingly though, it went so well that we crossed the street and ended up at a Starbucks, of course.

From there we progressed forward at a snail's pace. That is the perfect pace for someone like me. Someone who was scared to share her heart again. Someone who was scared of making mistakes again. And someone who was afraid of making a bad choice, even with a litmus list to use as a guide. At some point, after a walk, a dinner and a date in Berkeley he told me that even though he liked me, he felt the need to go out with other people as I was his first post-divorce date. He wished he'd met me after going out with four or five others (not just coffee dates, but "date" dates). It felt too soon for him. I should have taken those words to heart. He asked if perhaps we could continue going out while he dated others. I thought about it. I said no thank you, I was looking for a long-term relationship ("LTR") that would lead to marriage. I said good night. We had our first, and supposedly, last kiss. It was a good one. We said our good-byes and I went home.

I remember distinctly my oldest daughter was awake and she wanted the debriefing. Now just so you don't think I'm a horrible mother, I did not routinely do this with my kids. In fact, for many years I went on some of my memorable blind dates and they never knew. This time around they were older and it seemed okay for them to learn the ins and outs of dates, choices and decisions and learn along with me.

The short of it was that Morgan thought I'd be nuts to date him while he was dating others. She said if he didn't see how truly wonderful I was, he needed to move on (she's a little biased, as are all three of my kids...it surprises me how great a "catch" they think their ol' mom is...in fact, it touches my heart and causes it to swell when I think of this fact, even now). I felt good about my decision. Until. The. Next. Day.

The next day brought me home mid-work day as my youngest daughter had gone into Ketoacidosis (potentially quite serious for a diabetic). I was home nursing her and working on the computer. As I was doing so I began to look at other "Matches." It was then that I decided if I was at the beginning of platonic dating with others, and he was at the beginning of platonic dating with others, then perhaps we could after all, date one another. I wrote an email to that effect to which he quickly responded with an invitation out to dinner.

Dinner led to more dating and in a matter of mere weeks we were "exclusive." Weeks turned into months and with each conversation our closeness grew. As we peeled another layer of the masks we both wore we grew closer and closer. Honestly, I'd never felt so loved. When I consulted my litmus list I was happily able to figuratively check off all of the "Must-Haves" and found he possessed none of the "Can't-Stands." He was kind and gentle, he was generous and funny. He treated his "Ex" well and was a devoted father. His co-workers loved him. He was a good man who was constantly trying to better himself. We got along well and there was no drama. We enjoyed our moments together without the sacrifice of time away from our children. I jokingly refer to him as a "Highly Evolved Male." All was good. Until it wasn't.

Somewhere the conversation that began in the parking lot months earlier was revisited. He felt the need to date others. So we broke up.

Summer passed and soon we were back in contact and in a mere matter of weeks were dating. Again. I had the best Christmas of my life with him. It was special. He was special. I felt special. And so we continued on our merry way, happily. That is, until he began to have doubts creep up once more in June (summer was historically now becoming my least favorite time of year for relationships!).

About that same time my father's battle with cancer really took over. In all, he had over 80 treatments of radiation and 3 rounds of chemotherapy. Our entire family was spending as much time together as possible: college graduations, birthdays, holidays and a memorable car trip with my dad driving my children and I throughout the town of Berkeley. Dad showed us the house he grew up in, where his paper route was, played kick the can, attended elementary school and most importantly, met my mom. He showed us the park where they were engaged, the church where they were married, their first apartment, and the hospital my mom worked at when my brother was a baby. By August of that summer I had two weeks off and moved into my parents' home to help care for my dad as Hospice became more integral.

During this time period he and I were drawn together once more. His text messages, emails and more gave me encouragement and strength while I leaned on him. He visited my dad mere days before he died and helped me make a DVD to show my dad, and later, play at his memorial. My dad told him, "I thought you were going to be a part of our family. But you need to do what is right for you." He loved that, the part about my dad wanting him to do what was right for him, even though he had so obviously loved his daughter and she, in turned loved him.

After my father died his boyhood friend was in town with his family. He wanted me to meet them. It might seem funny to the outside observer, me going over to his house to meet his boyhood friend and family, even though we weren't dating. It didn't matter. I knew, just knew in my heart of hearts it was just a matter of time before we would be back together again. I was sure of it. His friend & family were just great, and we immediately connected. I remember his friend, Todd, looking at me with his wife. He asked me something to the effect of, "What is it about this guy?" What Todd was trying to say to me, I think, was, "Why do you love him?" I could only answer honestly, I didn't know. I just did.

It all seemed to me that my dad, in his death, had somehow brought us back together. Ever the matchmaker, my dad. So by now, I am sure you can guess where this is headed. We began to date anew. Cautiously. Soon we began with gusto.

During this time period his business, that he had helped create, was going through rough waters. So rough, in fact, it was no longer the source of joy it had been. He was really struggling with what to do. Did they sell? Did they try to persist? What about the employees? There is more to this subject but it is not my story to tell. The short of it is that they sold the company that he had helped create. They had gone from boom to not quite bust, but certainly not what they had once been. They sold to a major company in the City. He began to commute. He hated that. He hated being away from his kids. He was unhappy in the rental house he had occupied for the past number of years. He began to think about making changes.

More time passed. Our kids finally met (only once in the 2-1/2 years we dated I might add, we were being overly cautious in this arena too), we had dinner together in a neutral setting. It went fine but we postponed doing it again. We did spend time with one another's friends and family though. We traveled. We laughed. We continued to grow closer.

And yet.

I still wondered sometimes, did he know, really know, what he wanted? He began to make changes. He quit his job. He looked for a house to buy. He found one. At some point, I could sense something changing. I could not put a finger on it. I began to question him.

Now when narrating a 2-1/2 year relationship, you gloss over it in the retelling. You somehow aren't quite able to capture what made it so special. In telling the story of "us" I have skipped the good parts, the very best parts. Things like the first dance, or the time I had a toothache that ached so badly that I woke up crying. He heated a washcloth and got a heating pad for me. When narrating, I didn't tell about the time I couldn't sleep after my dad died. So what does he do? He tells me a bedtime story over the phone. Sounds like such a small thing to do as I type it. At the time, it got me through a rough patch. There were so many other moments, those are to be saved for other times of reflection. For now, I will say we had many moments both tender and poignant.

I have also neglected to mention the times when he told his story and I told mine. All of it. And that somehow, even though we'd told all of deep, dark secrets, our mistakes and our triumphs, we still loved one another. Or maybe we loved one another in spite of them. In retelling our pasts, we were working through some of the difficulties and somehow it drew us closer. We tried to talk about a future. But that was where we got stuck each time.

I could imagine a future, together. He couldn't. He was still trying to figure out who he was and what he wanted. He used to say I was like Yoda, knowing what I wanted and farther along on life's path.

As we have separated at times, I have told him I visualized the two of us on Angel Island. When we have reached forks in the road he headed off in one direction, and I in another. Still, I could look down at him and see him moving forward. He could see me at times. We could stop and wave, and see progress. But when we looked over and saw one another, it's as if we had to run over and travel together again. We could not seem to separate. We both seemed to find this analogy fitting. Somehow I began to sense we were headed toward another fork in the road, but that it would be different this go around. Finally we met to talk about "us" (and if you're wondering...the answer is yes, it was summer once again).

It seemed we had circled back to the very beginning. He realized he needed to go it alone. We both agreed to give one another time and do a better job of traveling on our own journies, separate. In October I went on a "Road Warrior" trip down the coast of California visiting girlfriends all the way down and back. I felt strong. I wrote him and spoke briefly on the phone and said let's not meet until he got back from his African safari or after the holidays. We ended up meeting at Christmas time.

We exchanged presents for the kids and one another. We talked and I cried and we said good-bye. A week passed and that Christmas was my worst ever (or so I thought, until I remembered one about ten years earlier that was much, much worse...). This year I'd hurt my back, my kids were with their dad, my mom stayed home that day after all, and I was home in my pajamas until 2:00 in the afternoon. I cried some more. I felt weak, pathetic even. For the first time in my life, my heart was broken. I simply could not understand what happened to "us."

A few more months passed. We met again, briefly this past March. We talked about work, our kids, books and more. He asked if I had begun dating. I recounted some of my funnier dating escapades. He looked uncomfortable. Pained. And he squirmed. He then told me he had begun dating someone for a few months. I did not react. I was surprised. He began talking about something else. Meanwhile, in my head, I was thinking about how he had mentioned wanting to figure himself out. He had not, recently, mentioned wanting to date others. But there it was. I was strangely calm (I am always calm in crises or in situations that can cause others to become quite dramatic). I asked if we could go back to the subject of his dating, and how they met. He said friends set him up (of course, I wondered who...?). We exchanged a few more pleasantries and that, was that.

Until the proverbial follow-up emails. He was worried about me, wanting to make sure I was really putting my heart into dating again. He said it would be a crime, if someone like me, with a warm and open heart turned closed as a result of the end of "us." I assured him that no, I was dating with an open heart but I had changed. I was guarded. My heart was guarded. My heart was guarded because of him. And though I had met men, several, in fact, they were not the men for me. I had learned that litmus test or not, that my own inner barometer was a pretty good guide these days.

When I think of the on again, off again nature of our relationship, I think of the often quoted book, "It's Called a Break-up Because It's Broken." This was certainly the case of he and I. We were broken from the very beginning, I just did not see the signs of uncertainty in his eyes, his heart, his words or his actions. Yes, he did give mixed messages. He was present. He was the best listener I have ever met. He was the most loving, kind, gentle man toward me and others. He was giving, to a point. I can see at the point that he was unable to give, was exactly where the problem lay. He was not sure of himself regarding relationships and choosing a life partner. He had more growing up to do, despite being a "Highly Evolved Male." He needed to become a man, and mature a little more in the dating arena. He needed to know himself better before he could give of himself freely. He really and truly needed to go it alone (even if his version of alone meant a new travel partner in tow).

I should have seen that we were doomed from the first time he spoke with hesitancy. My oldest daughter saw it years earlier. I did, but brushed it aside as we grew closer and more fond of one another.

I haven't talked with him in months. The heartache I felt so acutely has subsided and it doesn't appear that the puncture is permanent. I can listen to "our" songs and not get teary-eyed. I can read old emails and not feel the painful pierce or the addictive need to shoot another response to him. He will always be someone who "raised the bar" so to speak. He was and is a good person.

And now. And now I continue to move forward on my path, headed in another direction altogether. I'm alone but not lonely. I am happy. I am hopeful. I begin to wonder who is around the next bend?

Sex In The City vs Starbucks in the Suburbs

When Carrie writes about "Sex in the City" of New York, it's all very glamorous. The clothing and accessories are cutting edge, she and her three friends attend elegant parties, experience decadent meals and their work involves world travel. The women get together and discuss their daily lives and sexual conquests and somewhere in each episode there is a lesson to be learned. There are no children. No husbands (not until later in the sitcom's history), only boyfriends. A seemingly endless supply of boyfriends, I might add.

As I write about "Starbucks in the Suburbs" I find there are both differences and similarities. My friends and I (both married and single) enjoy dressing up when we can, eating and traveling. But realities frequently keep us in jeans, cooking dinners on the fly and driving in carpools. We discuss our intimacies (or lack thereof) and yes, we (hopefully) are learning life lessons as we traverse along life's road.

I have been single for nearly seven years. Sometimes I cannot believe so many years have passed since the end of my marriage. When we first separated, I had no desire to date. I had no time to date. I was teaching full time, preparing to move out of a home we'd been in for eleven years and I had a daughter who had a medical condition that involved getting up at 12, 3 and 6. I was sleep deprived. I was pink-slipped that year. I didn't know where we were going to live and I was teaching 5th grade full time which though it was my most challenging class, it was also my most rewarding.

That first summer I spent building a little nest for my children and I in the condo where I currently reside. I prepared to return to my classroom because the pink-slip was (thankfully) rescinded. In short, I was in survival mode.

Survival mode continued and led to kids'-activity mode. Volleyball, soccer, lacrosse, 4-H, bowling, and more filled my calendar's dance card. And it is with some pride that I can say I rarely, if ever, missed any of their events. I realized this time period would be fleeting. I wanted to look back and have no regrets about being with my kids. I knew, instinctively, that all too soon the kids would grow, mature and head off to college. I wanted memories of their performances, matches and competitions. I loved forming friendships with the families and coaches, leaders and mentors in my children's lives. I learned, even then, that though I may wear the badge of mother, all of these people, wore the badge of teacher for my children.

When I did have a little free time, I found myself wanting to go out with my girlfriends for adult conversation. Dating had taken a back seat to being a mom, and slowly, finding out who "I" was again (after a 17 year hiatus) suddenly took up top billing. I found I did, indeed, have a sense of humor. I took pride in my lessons, my classroom and the community we built together as a "family." I developed an opinion, learned it was okay to be friendly to everyone but that I didn't need to necessarily be their best friend. I developed a taste for lemon drops. I found a small group where I could talk about God, my faults, and the masks we all wear were shed together to reveal our true vulnerable selves (figurative "warts" and all). I relaxed. Tension and stress fell away. Peace prevailed and creativity bubbled to the surface. I found I liked myself. I loved my life. I still do.

Eventually though, there were times where I dated. I went on my first of several blind dates. Many times this involved meeting up at a local Starbucks for the proverbial cup of coffee (did I mention I have never drank coffee?). I joined an online dating service a few years later (more than once), and then chickened out (also more than once). I met a wide variety of men. While meeting them, I did learn some lessons along the way. Mainly, I learned about myself. I learned about what men I did not find to be a suitable match for me.

To surmise a few of the Unsuitable Suitors (believe me, I could blog several more times and that would only scratch the surface):

Men who have names like short generals, keep unkempt homes, make fun of their depressed daughters, take photos of me on first dates & then make a DVD of me looping on their TV EVEN if they are Stanford graduates...oh and have rodent detectors that emit high pitched sounds to deter them from entering their homes.

Fire fighters that work with my ex-husband, do work on my house and are the strong silent type (and I do mean silent, hardly talked), even if they do work with youth and their mother was a teacher and they are very good looking.

Married men who make passes at me on my class field trips (ick).

Nice men who look a wee bit like Hermen Munster & are working three jobs to support their ex-wives in the lives to which they have grown accustomed to but seem like really sweet fathers to their children.

Blind dates that look a wee bit like a blond Santa Claus and have only just separated from their wives and who do not speak up when their teenaged daughter is drinking in a boat in the middle of a lake with their boyfriend late at night in the dark.

Dads from volleyball tournaments who have teenaged daughters that put down one of my children whom they have just met.

Men who are like gentle teddy bears and bring their own caught squid & fish to dinner at Chinese restaurants and find we have nothing in common as we spend the evening talking about his fishing and hunting but will still run into one another at mutual friends' home so we end the evening very cordially.

Very good looking men who are reading self-help books and doing cool things like running in marathons if they are still really very bitter toward their ex-wives.

Cute Australian men who have a twinkle in their eye, a nice accent & seem to connect with me but then are hot, cold, hot, cold and then who cancel a date to go drink with themselves at a bar and actually get drunk & run into my friends.

Men who think because you have gone on one date or shared an email and phone call can then say, "I love you" in the next phone call, text or email exchange (ick again).

Seemingly nice men who spend the night confirming out loud that I have everything on their check-off list and tell me so much about themselves that they never really even ask me questions about my job, my future dreams or my hobbies to see if we’re really truly a good fit because they are already planning a future with me and disappointed to hear I’ve planned a small trip for myself & daughter in three months and then let me split the bill with them so I don’t feel bad knowing I am going to go home and write them a note online telling them I think I need more time to figure out what I want in my immediate future but that I do not believe it will include them.

Men, in whom I'm interested, and they're interested in me, but timing is wrong. Or, in another case, travel gets in the way.

There are also men who are genuinely quality guys but my heart tells me that they are not for me, or I am not for them. We become friends. In fact, I have guy friends all over the greater Bay Area and stretching as far as the Arizona desert.

Or, there simply is just no spark. Gotta have spark, at least at the beginning.

I'm sure I've missed or forgotten a few men I've dated post-divorce (and have knowingly omitted certain "someones" from this list) but I will admit it appears I've learned a few things after all.

"Starbucks In The Suburbs" may not be as glamorous as "Sex In The City" but it does provide an excellent backdrop for life's lessons.

The Chain Link Fence

As the youngest of four children, in order to keep up with my siblings, I had to learn to climb the chain link fence that barricaded our yard from the high school located behind it. Beyond the fence lay limitless hours of fun for all us: my dad would practice his golf technique by hitting a giant bucket of golf balls, my older sister and brother would play baseball or practice catching pop-up flies with their friends, while my other sister and I would play “house” on a sound booth’s roof. The sound booth was located down a hill and behind the bleachers where the track lay waiting for the next football game or track meet. The tennis courts and pool were nearby so we would stay for hours, sometimes until dusk was beginning to fall, and then climb back over the fence in time for dinner.

At other times we played “Horse” on the basketball court with our dad, where he was not one to let us win. If we won, we earned it fair and square. We’d go for walks or jogs at the high school and sometimes, when it was really hot and the football players were practicing, we’d get the hose and squirt them with cold water while standing atop our ladder and leaning as far over the fence as possible. Many memories of my childhood involved climbing over that fence. It was, when I was little, quite a feat for a little person to accomplish. I felt strong and empowered when I did it. And later, I was proud when I came across a fence to climb and could jump over it in no time flat. I think it impressed the boys. I suppose that was a motivating factor as well, come to think of it. Still, that fence somehow is intertwined in many adventures at Castro Valley High, which we’d all thought of as an extension of our backyard.

Each fourth of July our family celebrated our country’s birthday in a quaint, time honored tradition: races for the kids, baseball, a barbeque with hot dogs and burgers, watermelon, potato and pasta salads, and we would end the entire extravaganza with a giant display of fireworks at the gravely track behind our house. During the course of the day our entire family, and about fifteen others and all their children, made the trek over the chain link fence…this time it was outfitted with two aluminum ladders, one located on each side of the chain link fence positioned in a giant “A.” Children and parents alike would carefully climb over so the games could begin. My dad would be outfitted in a referee uniform and cap at this point, with a whistle in his mouth. We had sack races, we did cartwheels, we raced, we jumped and we even had the “tiniest steps” contest so each child could win. Raffle tickets were passed out generously to all of the children and were later redeemed for candy and inexpensive prizes. Mom and her friend Joanne would dole out the goods to us. Together, we all made several “crossings” between our backyard and the school. If an elderly person had to cross, we would have spotters helping them over and on either side of the “A” framed ladders to catch them if they had a mishap. Usually, after we lit off the fireworks, we’d hop over one last time to bid good-bye to another year of celebratory fun and then head home tired, dirty and content.

Soon though, we somehow outgrew hopping over the fence. It simply was not cool for us to do it at a certain age, I think about the time my oldest sister entered high school and boys were suddenly becoming of interest. The only exception, of course, was our annual 4^th of July party. Other than that, we learned to walk around the block to the school.

Over the years I’ve crossed many other fences, usually involving a shortcut or to enter an area that was “off limits.” In my mind’s eye, I would inevitably think of our chain link fence…even if the moment of reflection was a fleeting one as I hopped over.

Last night my dad and mom attempted to go to my son’s lacrosse game. I say attempted, because they couldn’t quite make it. They slowly and gingerly got out of their car and carefully made their way across the parking lot and entered the stadium. They sat and rested at a picnic table and then they continued to walk around the track to the chain link fence. We realized the JV game was not even half way finished yet. It would be an hour before Troy’s game began. At this point, my dad, who is courageously fighting cancer and undergoing yet another round of radiation, said, “I can’t make it.” He could not sit for an hour and then endure the cold and the wind, to watch his grandson play a lacrosse game. This was despite the fact that he wanted to so badly. He had yet to make a game this season and was bound and determined to do so. Up to this point, he had only been able to witness Troy’s games on DVD’s that friends of ours had filmed for him.

I said, “Let me go get Troy so he can say hi to you.” I had to walk a ways to an opening in the fence and entered the track area. I explained to Troy that Grandpa and Grandma wouldn’t be able to stay and why. We quickly walked the length of field together and stopped at the chain link fence. Troy graciously thanked them for coming and understood why they had to leave. They all chatted for a brief time and then Troy hugged them both tightly to say good-bye.

I went to bed thinking of that chain link fence. It is a difficult thing seeing a symbol of my youth turn into a symbol of my dad’s physical limitations. I felt sad and I felt love. I felt sad because I could see my dad’s eyes fill with tears as he spoke with my son and how this cancer had changed my strong father. I felt love because of all of the really good memories my mom and dad have given my siblings and I growing up, living life. And now I see the love my dad and mom have for my son, daughters and myself, my siblings and all of the other grandchildren. I see the kind of love that would drive him to the field and to that fence, knowing he might not be able to last through an entire game.

My dad might see the night as a failure, that he only made it to the fence. But he didn’t. My dad succeeded. He gave both Troy and me the gift of love and a memory that will last forever.

"Blanking Blank!"

The details of why I did the unthinkable elude me. I only know my oldest daughter Morgan was being quite snippy and rude to her two siblings and myself. Usually I was pretty good at deflecting or ignoring the comments so as to make the morning’s transport in the mini-van as painless as possible. But not this day…

Most weekday mornings began quite early, in order for Morgan and Troy to get to school by the 7:00AM start time for their Zero Period classes. Frequently there were conflicts amidst the crazy chaos, as we all got ready. This included Shelby and I as well, as we needed to get to the elementary school where I taught at the time.

I do remember this particular morning being worse than our normal “bad” mornings. I also remember I could not tune out her rude behavior and comments that day. Instead I got more and more irritated. We were all biting our tongues. Finally, I snapped. I told her she was acting like a “blanking-blank” (insert terrible words). She stared at me in shock and the other two kids also froze. I walked upstairs and gave myself a time-out.

While in my room, I began to berate my horrible behavior and knew I needed to quickly make amends. By this time the kids were all in the van silently waiting for me. That in and of itself was rare, so one can see saying, “blanking-blank” was upsetting for all of us. As I entered the van I began my impassioned speech. I said I was sorry. I said even though Morgan had been rude and I was upset with her behavior, what I had said was inexcusable. I apologized. I said I was sorry again. I asked her, and them, to forgive me.

When I went to school I walked into my classroom and cried. I felt like a failure. Here I was, a teacher, mentor, child advocate and I had just told my daughter she was acting like a “blanking-blank.” It is all I could think of all day.

After school, I picked up Morgan and Troy at the previously appointed location. When they hopped into the mini-van, I brought up my behavior from earlier that day to them again. I told them how I thought about it all day and apologized once more for using the “blanking blank” comment. The kids all said they forgave me and I told them that I loved them.

At that point Shelby was sitting in the far backseat in the van. She quietly said, “Mom, can I say a bad word now?” I can’t put words in her mouth but I think she felt that because her mom had been given a free pass to forgiveness for swearing perhaps she could test the waters of cuss words for herself. I told her she could say it because she had asked, we were the only ones in the van and because no one would hear.

“Stupid,” she replied.

“Shut-up” was next. Her sister and brother began to snicker.

“Asshole. Damnit. Fuck,” were next.

It is a terrible thing to admit but Morgan and Troy began laughing and soon I was too, much to my chagrin.

Troy, sensing the opportunity for further amusement from his siblings and myself, suggested we see who could come up with the longest sentence using the most swear words. All three attempted, and I’m more than a little embarrassed to admit that by the end of the car ride we were laughing hysterically. We were all in shock at our potty mouths and our newly constructed sentences.

We entered the house and Troy ran over to the computer to put on the catchy song at the time, and we all began to bounce and dance like Tiger from Winnie the Pooh. We all were laughing, dancing and enjoying ourselves for the remainder of the song.

After it was over I walked upstairs and headed into the kitchen to cook dinner. I knew, even then, that I would never forget that day. And, I believe, my kids won’t either. They will probably remember I said something terrible. But what I hope that what they will walk away from that day is this: I had made a mistake. I apologized and asked for forgiveness. Hopefully, they will remember that there was still love and laughter while we were dancing together and the music blared. Hopefully, they will also learn that once in a while, even on a horrible parenting day, that with sincere apologies and forgiveness, love can prevail.

Watermelon Memories: Harry Potter Style

In the Harry Potter stories, Dumbledore would pull threads of memory from a giant basin called the “Pensieve.” I find myself doing something similarly as I recall stories of my children’s formative years, my family, friends and myself. In doing so, there are moments in my history that are tender and pleasant memories, or some where I find my face burns from humiliation or grief. When I think of my children’s father, there are all of the previously mentioned ones involving he and myself (meaning: the good, the bad, the ugly). However, since my children will likely be reading “my story” I have decided to use a selective memory whereby I will say nothing that would hurt them or degrade him. He is, after all, the father of my children and we co-parent together.

Some day I imagine we will likely be experiencing an indescribable joy, as we become grandparents in a labor and delivery ward, a shared intimacy that only he and I will have in terms of being blood-related. Yes, there will likely be new partners for us both (he’s got a head start on that one as he remarried a woman nearly three years ago), but we share a bond that I will never have with another human being. I look forward to that moment. I also look forward to my children’s weddings, if they choose to do so. I anticipate graduations and celebrations, and more. Recently we spent a weekend in San Diego visiting our son for the Parents’ Lacrosse Weekend for his team. Yes, we drove in separate directions after having shared a meal with one another, as he headed to his hotel and I to my friends’ home… but for a brief weekend, we could just be the mom and dad of Troy. It was special. I am sure there will be many more special moments we’ll share as both parents and grandparents in our future and those of our children.

I rarely, if ever, use the term “Ex” when describing him. It just seems to be such a disrespectful, negative term when summarizing the person I met when barely twenty-one, and to whom I was married within a year and wed for seventeen. The divorce took four years. Not that we didn’t plan on doing it, but the job of working full time, parenting, and all of life’s complications as you add children’s health concerns, sports’ teams and events to the mix, take time. These items just took up nearly most of ours. And then the uprooting of the family tree is time-consuming work. At its very core, we did not touch it. That is because at our family tree’s core, you will find that we both love our three children very, very much.

I always say any anger or ill will I have toward their father is far surpassed by the amount of love I have for my three kids. I would imagine he’d agree on that point. His love is greater than his anger, too.

And so, on occasion, and for their sakes’ I want to remember some of my fondest moments with their dad. One of my favorites was within months of our beginning to date. It was the fourth of July. Now, if you know me, or my family, you know that we have a very special relationship with our country’s birth date. We celebrated it with a collection of families for as far back as my memory will serve me. More about that later~

Anyhow, on Uncle Sam’s birthday of 1985 it was warm and we must have spent the earlier portion of the day with other friends and couples from the church we attended. I don’t remember all of those details, I do remember later, as the sun was setting. We drove Greg’s Toyota pickup truck with a cooler full of watermelon. We parked up on Fairmont Drive, and he off-wheeled onto the golden hills overlooking the Bay Area with a view of the City in all its glory. He had put the tailgate down and he was wearing his favorite faded blue Levi button down jeans. His hear was long and his bangs swept to the side of his face. He handed me my first slice of watermelon and we both hungrily bit into the cool crescents. They were perfect. He spit the seeds as he encountered them, which gave me license to join him too (this before we thought of the environmental impact this might have on the natural landscape of the region). As he got to the nub of the rind, he tossed it carelessly over his shoulder onto the hill located behind us. This was so uncharacteristic of him, I giggled. And then, after I had finished my first slice, I tossed it overboard as well and grinned like the Cheshire cat. This continued on for some time and as the juice dribbled down my cheek, I swiped it away with the back of my hand, tossing another rind toward the ever-expanding pile.

I don’t know why, but this act; throwing the rinds out onto the hill of Fairmont drew me closer than ever to him. The intimacy of this evening stays with me even now, some twenty-five years later. It is just one single strand from the Pensieve of memories I carry inside me regarding the father of my children, commonly referred to as my “Ex.”

The Beginning of "My Story"

I am not really sure how or where to begin my story. I know this fact: I was not a perfect kid and God knows I didn’t look like one. I had crooked teeth, scrawny skinny limbs and many times, green hair tinged from the chorine of our local pool. As I graduated from middle school and entered high school my personal self-worth was amazingly still intact, despite having worn headgear, being teased in 7^th grade about being a member of the “Itty Bitty Titty Committee” and choosing not to 
“go out” with any of the boys that showed interest in me, despite my previously mentioned flaws…I knew at the tender age of eleven or twelve there just was no point. I wasn’t going to “marry” any of these boys and didn’t even really want to begin a relationship. I knew a whole new batch of older boys would be at the high school I’d soon be attending, as well as the pool where I worked out about 30 minutes away. Why get tied down at such a young age?

The boys did, however, show an interest in me the summer between my junior & senior year when I belatedly reached puberty and began getting some curves. At the time, it’s too bad I couldn’t embrace the “new” me. Instead, I bemoaned the stretch marks on my breasts and was bummed I could no longer wear my cool red & white striped tube top or some of the fashions of the day geared toward the flat-chested teens (me). It was a bit traumatic as I had been happy with my body. My mom offered a breast reduction if my newly formed body was too much for me emotionally. Just knowing that made me feel better. I had options, AND a cool mom who somehow knew just the right thing to say (even though I knew she was just throwing the offer out there for me, knowing I’d grow accustomed to my “new” body).

My personality did not tip the scales of being perfect either. I was driven, for sure. I was highly competitive, with myself. It might have had something to do with the fact that years earlier at my first synchronized swim meet I ended up in second place, from the bottom. I was horrible. On a positive note (and I’ve always been able to see two sides to every coin) I didn’t get last place and I could only move up in position at future swim meets. I think this might have been where I began making lists and goals and visualizing things happening, because eventually my swimming abilities improved, as did my placing.

My inner strength was strong too; I often spoke up about injustice when I saw it occurring, though I had not learned the fine art of being soft-spoken or doing so in an eloquent manner. Still, I loved learning, my teachers, and tried to do the right thing. I generally could look at things in a more mature fashion and see the long-term consequences. So my parents were lucky in that some of the normal turbulent teenaged rebellion was spared on them from me. No getting drunk, or high. Yes, there was the time I took one puff of Shelley’s joint in 8^th grade in back of the school on the grass field. And in about 9^th grade or so I may have taken one puff as another joint was being passed around at a party…I honestly don’t remember. I do remember this; I didn’t want to spend money on drugs or alcohol (it helped that I didn’t have any disposable income). I didn’t want to waste the training I was doing at the swim pool. I didn’t want to feel any different (and I didn’t because one puff of whatever it was that I smoked didn’t constitute a “high”) and I didn’t want to turn out like a distant relative whom I thought was an alcoholic (but really suffered from being bi-polar). But the really big reason I didn’t want to do “bad” stuff was because I didn’t want to let my parents down; specifically, my dad who bragged about us to EVERY one.

So here’s the conundrum: where do I begin when I don’t really have an endpoint in mind? I am of the mindset that no matter how old I grow to be, I will never “arrive.” I intend to be a lifelong learner. I’ve too much to learn. Still, one must begin at some point, and so, too, will I. Here is my story.

To My Children

Dear Morgan, Troy and Shelby,

Over a year ago you heard me read aloud a Valentines Day letter I wrote for Grandpa. It was filled with love, pride and reflected on his wonderful life and how it felt to be his daughter, experiencing and growing up with his “legacy of love.” I read the letter with a voice of confidence and felt as though I was bragging about him as I did so. The audience was filled with his admirers: coaches, players, co-workers, friends, grandchildren, children and his wife (my mom, your grandma). As you know, I read the letter at his Memorial service, which was hopefully a loving tribute to him and a celebration of his life.

For years I have thought of myself as a writer. I write because I have to write. These days I mostly write to you, about you, and “for” you (your schools, coaches, teachers, and more). I write about my mistakes, and truthfully there are many. I write from my heart, and all matters related to it (but none quite as great as the three of you). Simply stated, I write about my life. I am a daughter, sister, mom and lover (when the stars have aligned). But mostly, I write because I have this sense of needing to tell my story.

And so that brings me to where I sit today; the need to share my own “Legacy of Love” to you. I will write, assemble and organize my imperfect life in story form for you. I’m sure it will include bragging, celebrating, tears and triumph. But of this you can be sure, it will not be pretty, but it will be real. I love you three so much, I really truly do. Here are my stories for you.

A Voice

There was a time where my voice was hoarse, nearly all the time. My medical doctor explained it away due to the nature of my job; singing opening & closing songs in my kindergarten classroom, reading aloud stories in my animated voice and projecting across the room to a room of squiggly, wiggly little ones. I remember having him look down my nose and throat, a rather uncomfortable procedure, and noticed polyps that had developed in my throat. He said I should not raise my voice, sing or whisper. Ha! I thought, he hasn’t seen me teach! Those items I do on any given day, multiple times.

I had read Christiane Northrup’s book, Women’s Bodies Women’s Wisdom searching for answers to this lack of “voice” and to gain a better understanding of myself. I am probably one of the only women in America that read this 776 page book cover to cover, much like a normal person would do with a novel, not a women’s health book. According to Northrup, women’s bodies have seven energy sources known as “charkas.” The 5^th charka lists several organs but the ones that seemingly pertained to me during this time period were my throat and trachea. A chart in her book mentions the mental and emotional issues involved in this charka being communication: expression vs. comprehension, timing: pushing forward vs. waiting, and will: willful vs. compliant. This was interesting as I struggled in my marriage and wrestled with myself. When was I supposed to be a submissive wife? When do I stand up for my children, students or myself? I had no voice and a husband who, though he tried in his way, could not comprehend my struggle. What was the big deal? Why didn’t I just go along to get along with his line of thinking and reasoning?

My personality changed over the years, slowly corroding my essence, my very being. My ability to write and speak was lost. I was becoming a zombie as I forged ahead. Sure, it would emerge, mainly in moments of parenting with my children or teaching my students. Building forts in the family room, silly dancing and make-believe or lovingly tucking my children in at night with stories and prayers and recapping the days highs and lows helped me keep pieces of myself intact. Witnessing magical “ah-ha” moments as a student grasped concepts or sharing in the absolute beauty of building relationships with these kids also helped me hang on. But somehow I still became lost over time and knew I was struggling and couldn’t quite put into words what it was…

To begin this part of the story, I need to describe a dream I had. In this dream, my ex-husband and I were eating dinner at a couple’s house. For some reason we had to run back to our own home and get something we had forgotten.

I entered our bedroom and was standing near the sink of our bathroom. In my dream, my then-husband crept behind me and began to slowly stuff a dark sock into my mouth. I was trying to talk, scream, and cry out for help. I could not get any sound out. In this evil nightmare, he laughed at me. His intent was to kill me. I was dying trying to speak.

Now I am not a dream interpreter. But who could miss the analogy in this very vivid dream? I was, in fact, dying to speak. In fact, in my seventeen years of marriage this dream was the only one I can remember. It was so disturbing I can recall it now nearly seven years after the fact.

This year I went to the doctor for a check-up and he looked down my throat in that same uncomfortable manner. You know what? Those polyps are no longer there, sure there’s a little scar tissue, but they are gone. In that time period I have taught kindergarten, fifth and sixth grade. I’ve sung, I’ve projected, I’ve whispered and God knows, I’ve been animated. What is the difference? Well, I’ve changed. In those seven years I have asserted myself, I’ve learned to speak up, to say what I think. I am no longer with that man who did not allow for questioning and discussion and disagreements, even when voiced in a civil manner, and certainly not when voiced with a swear word interjected (or two). I have learned to allow myself to speak up, to write, to allow the voice to be heard. Whether I am sitting with friends at dinner, partaking in family discussions or voicing my opinions at staff meetings, I speak up now. I have a voice. I have something to say, whether you agree or disagree is no matter to me. I will share my thoughts, thank you very much.

First Olympic Triathlon: 1500 yard swim, 24.9 bike, 6.5 run

(A.K.A. “Upchuck Kathy”)

Many friends and family members have asked me to write about completing my first Olympic Triathlon, the Silicon Valley International Triathlon (SVIT) on June 13^th. To begin “my story” I must first tell you that about three years ago I completed a sprint distance triathlon in Monterey with my very good friend Misti and her husband Scott (known as the “kelp crawl” because you muster your way through yards of kelp in the ocean). The next summer my father was gravely ill and sadly passed away in August of that year. I spent any free time I had with he, my mom, and my family at their house and have no regrets for doing so. Last year, in memory of my dad, my youngest daughter Shelby and I trained for several months with the Forward Motion Race Club (FOMO) “newbie” triathlon group. It was very special. And so it began “for real.”

What began “for real” was the triathlon bug or training. Or really, the love and enjoyment of exercising was ignited once again. Many of you know I was a synchronized swimmer and qualified for the Olympic trials. I grew up swimming most of my youth and teenaged adolescence swimming from 5 to 8: 00 pm at Heather Farms Pool in Walnut Creek and Saturdays from 9-12:00. Those were the minimum hours. Several times during the year I would make the trek before school as well or sleepover another swimmer’s house in order to make all the practices. I quit my senior year of high school, some would argue too soon (no chance for college scholarships despite good grades and decent ability). I had been swimming from the age of 8 until I was nearly 18 and I lost the joy of competition. I took some time off, gained tons of weight (was still eating as though I was swimming 15-20 hours a week) and then began to workout in other ways in order to burn some of the “lbs” that had made their way onto my body for the first time in my life. Aerobics, body sculpting, windsurfing, skiing, kickboxing, and more were added to my repertoire. Eventually I swam once more for a year, as a member of the cast of the New Orleans World’s Fair Aquacade show (think: beginning of Las Vegas “O” show). It was a kick and done totally for enjoyment & allowed me to save a great deal of money for college.

The years flew by as I married (and divorced 17 years later), taught students in grades K-12^th and had three kids of my own. As a result, I have attended a variety of sports and more: baseball, softball, volleyball, soccer, lacrosse, Irish dancing, a bowling league, Girl Scouts, science camps, basketball, and the National Charity League. I “participated” in all as a spectator, a volunteer, or as a team mom. I cheered, rooted and clapped my way through many hours of joy and heartache with my kids. Now they are 21, nearly 19 and 16 years old. And though I’ve always remained active, I did so around their schedules and activities.

Since completing a Tri for Fun with Shelby last year, I added the Tri for Real in August (the day after a painful breakup of a three year relationship), and a longer sprint distance triathlon in Morgan Hill this past May.

During the past year I have learned many things. I’ve learned first and foremost that cross training helps Arthritis of the knees feel as if it doesn’t exist. I’ve learned that if you don’t take the time to stretch after 50 mile bike rides and longer runs, you can pull your back while folding laundry & sitting improperly at work and it can take 6 months of physical therapy and lots of determination and patience to fully recover from it. I’ve learned the benefits of icing right after a race or working out and daily morning stretches.

I’ve learned to swim in open water, wear and care for a wetsuit. I’ve learned if you don’t put on Body Glide on your neck while wearing a neoprene cap in the winter, you will end up with a chaffing on your neck that feels like a rug burn and looks like a horrible case of “hickey-itis” ( but comes without any of the benefits). I have learned what my split for a 100-yard swim is (thanks to clinics), to relax my arms more, to reach over a barrel while stroking and to try to glide with each stroke. I’ve learned that when you swim in open water and it is very wavy you just keep heading straight and that it is really fun. I’ve learned that women and men in all age groups can smoke me but it doesn’t matter as I’ve rediscovered the joy of swimming.

I’ve learned how to begin to handle my road bike, bouncing like a bunny, shifting gears for uphill and downhill and to try and speed up my cadence. I’ve learned how to draft while bike riding (or swimming for that matter) and to not to use Aero bars in a group ride as injuries will result. I have learned to sit upright while riding up a hill and crouch down and forward while going down or into the wind. I have learned to eat and drink while riding so I won’t “bonk.” I have learned if you don’t feel good before a bike ride begins and your tummy is rumbling that yes, you will vomit on a rather benign hill. Speaking of hills, I have learned to take the rear position on uphill climbs, another lesson in humility, as I become road kill for my teammates as they pass me by. Again. I have learned how to change a tire (but thank God, have not had to do it yet). I have learned about leg warmers, arm warmers, windbreakers and what it’s like to bike in weather so cold that ice forms on my helmet and fogs up my glasses.

I have much to learn about running still, as my injuries have prevented me from really being able to push myself in that arena. I do know I need to relax my shoulders (that is a constant in all three disciplines), keep my fingers near my hips and take tiny steps rather than long strides. I have learned to find dirt paths or lost all humility in groups and run on the Astroturf instead of the track when my back hurt. I learned to remember sunscreen and drink water before working out. I learned that if you don’t clip your toenails very, very short that if it’s hot and you race, you’ll lose half, if not all, of the entire big toenail. And it will hurt. And it will look ugly. I will learn that next time I will wear a shoe an entire size bigger. And you will learn humility all over again.

I have also learned that hard exercise affects my health in “womanly” regions. I will spare many of the details (as a courtesy to the reader) but let’s just say it wasn’t pleasant in the southern area of my physique for a while. I now take an Acidophilus dietary supplement. And even though I am menopausal, “Aunt Flow” comes to visit on occasion even though “she” hasn’t visited in a year and a half because of the stress of the longer competitions.

So what about that Olympic Distance Triathlon of a few weeks ago? Well, I finished. I had fun. I did not vomit. I was part of a team again. However, I did get overheated. My toes hurt and I lost a few toenails. I was slower than molasses for most of the entire race. I was like the tortoise. I finished s-l-o-w-l-y but surely. I went home happy. I road while I was in Tahoe the next day, just for fun. I am signed up to do another Olympic Distance Triathlon in August in Folsom. I guess you can tell, I have rediscovered a newfound love for exercising again. I am not competitive. I have changed. I enjoy it just for the sake of doing it. The triathlon in Silicon Valley confirmed what I already knew in my heart, I just love being active.