Making Mud, Tahoe Style

Do you ever step onto the grocery cart when there’s a slight downward tilt in the parking lot and say, “Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!” as you quickly coast to an abrupt stop?

Ever turn the music up louder in your car and “dance to the music” while driving?

What about when you’re at the beach, do you point your toe like a ballerina and gently dip your toe in sandy swirls as you walk?

I’m convinced what we adults need, is more play time. I’m not talking organized sports here, nor am I talking about board games. I’m not talking about flirtatious banter between you and your co-workers, though that does make for an enjoyable work environment. What I am talking about is a step back in time.

Let me share with you something of my past week. While in Tahoe with old (and now, new) friends I got to pretend I was a kid again. I got to play and eat and laugh and enjoy myself in the company of others. I got to recall the feelings you had as a child or young adolescent during your youth. Here is what I did:

I ran along a trail at D.L. Bliss State Park. Jumping off the dock followed this and executing cannonballs or jackknifes into Lake Tahoe near the Vikingsholm State Park at Emerald Bay. Later, we swam along the shore at Baldwin Beach and swam in and out of waves like dolphins at sea.

Day #2 was kayaking from Baldwin Beach back over to Emerald Bay again, quite a distance. We beached the watercrafts and swam over to Fannette Island and then repeated everything in reverse. I pretended I was Pocahontas the Princess and enjoyed the view from the front of the two-man kayak as we headed back to our original destination. We witnessed a Bald Eagle soaring above us as we first embarked upon our adventure. Later, as we returned, we witnessed Peregrine falcons and their giant nests located at the tops of the trees along the shoreline. It was magic.

Our third day of adventures involved a car trip over to Donner Lake (but no one asked when we would be there or had to stop to go to the bathroom, so that was the one deviation from being a kid that I can think of….). Upon arrival, we jumped on our road bikes and road up and up and up the old Hwy 40 to Nordin. The sky darkened as the cumulous clouds turned ominous and we raced our way down the mountain to our starting point. Just as we were arriving, huge drops of rain fell upon our heads. We quickly changed “costumes” and ran in the rain to our next location, a finger of water that fed into the lake. We peeled our clothes and shoes off to reveal swimsuits underneath. We then waded into the water to cool off further and swam to the mouth of Donner Lake. We headed back and had to ford across the water with our shoes, phones, and clothes. We climbed our way out of the rocky shorelines to dress and run back to the car, to eat, of course. Later that evening, we talked late into the night, none of us quite ready to “call it a day.” Our conversations ran the gamut of topics, and reminded me of late night sleepovers shared with my best friends growing up where you share secrets, longings and tales of adventures.

The next day began with a short bike ride to the Pope Estate and then back again where we decided we needed to wake up our friend (good thing he was already conscious by then or we would have had to jump on him to wake him up…we snuck quietly in to do so but alas, he squealed to let us know he was alive). We headed out yet again to The Red Hut and ordered three meals. Every few minutes we passed the plate to the next person so we could each enjoy the savory delights, so that in all, we each nibbled samples to complete our trio of diner delicacies.

Believe it or not, we were not quite through yet. We completed some chores and then ran along Taylor Creek and to cool off, jumped in, naturally. Later the mountain bikes came out of the shed and a crazy test of my abilities was to begin. But not, my friends, until we had driven over there with a smiling dog, three people on a very tight bench seat and a whole lot of laughter. The bike ride included a mountain trail, a steady climb up a narrow paved path and then the switchbacks began. This would be where my shoes kept coming unclipped, and when they were clipped in, I didn’t realize how much I dragged my left foot (and how that caused me to get caught on rocks, almost falling over or crash). From there I decided to keep my right foot unclipped so I could use it to stop or push off the dirt, rock and other mountainous debris. Sadly for me, due to the previously mentioned challenges, I found myself headed straight into a GIANT tree! I miraculously avoided a crash into the GIANT tree by falling on my right shoulder and quite literally, “ate dirt.” What do I decide to do at that point? I drink water and say, “I’m making mud.” It was then a rollicking ride back over dirt mounds, followed by a path of beautiful wild flowers and tree saplings lining our path.

Sigh. All too soon it was time to go home to suburbia and head down the mountain.

Today I got back up on my mountain bike (with new pedals, mind you, and many, many bruises covering the insides of both of my legs). I road gravel and dirt trails behind the homes and schools surrounding the neighboring town. I stopped counting jackrabbits after fifteen were spotted, the ground squirrels were too prolific to number, and a vulture passed overhead. I listened to my music as I whirled down the road, thinking, “Wheeeeeeeeeeee!”

It was a little taste of Tahoe right here in the suburbs.

Summer Is

Tag

Popsicles melting

Watermelon munched

Ice cream dripping

Frogs caught

Sleepovers

Corn nibbled

Tea parties

Bicycles spinning

Skates rolling

Razors wheeling

Sunburns stinging

Mother May I

Curfews growing

BBQ’s occurring

Music playing

Lemonade stands

Marco Polo

Plums or apricots sold

Make believe

Butterflies captured

Baseballs hit

Soccer balls kicked

Water guns expelled

Hoses spraying

S'Mores

Magical

My Son, The Chicken

My family has a sense of humor, even, in death.

Nearly two years ago, my father lost his 2-1/2 year battle with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. He had fought a gallant battle and withstood three rounds of chemo and 81 radiation treatments. Our family had chosen to view his cancer as a “teacher” and cherished all the time we had with him. Every holiday, birthday and event took on a new, more purposeful meaning.

For me, the term, “rank it” became more relevant. Traffic bad? It would receive a ranking of “2.” Get upset with someone? Perhaps that would receive a “3” ranking. Dad’s cancer? I gave it an “8.” It received a higher ranking because we knew he was dying, it would be a terrible loss for all of us, but it did not receive a “9” or “10” because dying is, after all, part of the circle of life.

When he had died, we really put a lot of thought and meaning behind each of the items involved: the wreath we displayed with red, white and blue flowers symbolizing his time in the military and our family’s love of celebrating the 4^th of July each year. The program had his coaching motto on it: “Play Hard. Play Smart. Have Fun. Be #1” and photos, and expressions of our love and our senses of humor too. We held a Memorial service one day (with students, players, coaches and childhood friends and family), a religious service at church on another (with whomever wanted to attend) and lastly, we held a burial service with the immediate family on a third and final day honoring and celebrating this wonderful man’s journey through life.

At his military service, there was a 21gun salute. Taps were played. We had to leave the cemetery while his casket was lowered into the ground, as is the tradition. During that time we headed into Old Sacramento to eat lunch. My mom, three siblings and their families, as well as my children and I were all in attendance. We reflected, as we often do, on the past week’s events. We were emotionally drained but content that we had really honored our husband, dad, grandpa and coach.

To kill a few hours, we walked throughout the town of Old Sacramento. It was very hot, even for an August summer day with the thermometer approaching one hundred degrees. We went in and out of shops and chatted amicably. At one point my son and I found ourselves in a very large store standing amidst a vast array of detailed costumes. Halloween was not something currently on our minds as we perused the aisles. However, at one point we stood in front of a large chicken costume. It had a realistic rubber chicken mask, a furry yellow “suit,” red leggings and giant rubber chicken feet. We laughed when we looked at it.

Troy jokingly said, “Mom will you buy that for me?”

I hesitated.

He sensed my hesitation and said, “Look, it’s on sale!” Sale meant it was not the originally priced $200 but a “mere” $115. That’s a hefty price tag for anyone, but for a single parent and teacher with one child currently in college and another two soon approaching, an expensive costume was not in my budget. And yet…

Inside my head I found myself thinking that this chicken suit would make a great costume for Troy. He could use it for Halloween, and pull pranks and have fun while in his leadership class during his senior year of high school. He could then take it to college for further amusement.

I looked at him and found myself saying, “If you put it on right now and walk through downtown Sacramento I will buy it for you. You can go up to grandma, your aunts, uncles and cousins and tease them.” I started laughing at this ridiculous idea, hoping he’d do it, as we all needed a little comic relief in our lives at that point. I remember thinking, how can you put a price on a great memory that was about to be created for the entire family?

“Okay,” he eagerly replied.

I purchased the suit and handed it over to him. We walked to the back of the store near the dressing rooms and he changed. Well, he didn’t actually change, he put it on over his gravesite attire. He was sweating before we even stepped out onto the wooden planked sidewalk in the blistering heat. I was laughing really hard at this point but remained far behind so any family members would not associate he and I as a mother/son combo, or should I say mother/chicken?

First, he walked down the hard wood. He lifted each rubberized chicken foot high into the air and dramatically placed it upon the ground (which with his six-foot two inch tall frame was really quite realistic, I might add). Complete strangers were chuckling as he traipsed along. He began to bob his rubberized chicken head forward and back, forward and back, forward and back as he approached the crosswalk (I could just imagine his clucking!). It just so happened my sister and mom were crossing the street from the opposite direction and headed towards Troy the chicken (a.k.a. my son).

He approached them and did a shy sort of wave at them. They both looked and laughed at the gangly chicken standing before them. He then bobbed his head forward, back, forward, back which encouraged further laughter from the pair of spectators. I loved being able to see the two of them laugh, especially my mom. Troy the Chicken continued to entertain them and then I let the cat out of the bag, which caused them to laugh even more so. We decided to leave Troy to further torment others while my mom, sister and I collected ourselves like a game of sardines across the street. We had a great vantage point for viewing Troy with other members of our family. Soon we were joined by my brother, his wife, my other sister, my two daughers and others. Off into the distance we saw my brother-in-law Dan and my nephew, Ryan approaching Troy the Chicken across the street.

First a bit of background: My nephew, Ryan, HATES people who dress up like characters. He finds them annoying as all get out. Dan, my brother-in-law, has a sense of humor and full belly laugh that my kids and I imitate just to make ourselves laugh. Well, the pair of them were approaching Troy who again did his shy, timid wave as they walked by. Ryan and Dan did not respond. Troy the Chicken then passed them by but immediately turned around so he was directly behind them. In fact, his rubber beak was nearly touching the backs of their heads. He tapped them with his beak. They turned around and looked at him. They were not amused and chose to ignore Troy the Chicken and continue walking. Troy then pecked at them again and when they turned he gracefully flapped his furry "wings." Again, no response other than looking very irritated.

Meanwhile, my mom, brother, sisters, sister-in-law, nieces, nephews, daughters and myself doubled over in pain, chortling and choking. We had tears streaming down our faces as we were spying on the father/son combo with Troy the Chicken who had now once again begun his chicken walk with his gawky stride.

He continued to follow closely behind the two of them. Just as my nephew looks like he's been pushed to the point of punching my son, Troy the Chicken, he stops. My son had pulled back the rubber mask to reveal his now sweat-soaked flushed face. He had a giant grin spread across it and the looks of surprise turned to immediate amusement from both Ryan and Dan as they began laughing out loud. They then noticed the rest of us across the street and joined us in continued laughter and the retelling of the episode which had just unfolded before one another.

Somehow, it seemed the perfect memorable ending to a "new kind of normal" day without our husband, father, grandpa and coach.

The cost of amusing family with Troy the Chicken? Priceless.

I've Got All My "Sisters" With Me...In The Dressing Room

What is it about women and the "sisterhood" that we naturally seem to share?

Example: I was recently up to Tahoe with my girlfriend.

In the matter of mere days I was once again reminded of why I appreciate my women friends. We talked the entire drive up the mountain, catching up on literally years of our lives. I won't go into any of those details but throughout the weekend I kept stepping outside of myself and looking at the bond she and I have, as well as women every where. We talked, we ate, we worked out together. We laughed, we cried and we shared our fears and out triumphs. We were vulnerable, and strong.

At one point we had both tried on swimsuits. Now, just the fact that we can model swimsuits for one another is nothing short of a miracle. At this point I will admit I'm not fat per say, but I am definitely aware of my body's flaws. And my friend, whom shares the same name (but a different spelling of it), well, hers is just about perfect, as near as I can see.. But of course, she doesn't see that..."we" (my sisterhood and I) all share that common vulnerability regarding our bodies. Somehow it bonds us.

If you want to see an example of sisterhood displayed between mere strangers, look no further than the nearest department store or boutique dressing room. You can put on a top, dress, pants, shorts or swim suit, walk out in front of the mirror and you will get an honest answer from the other women in there with you. Complete strangers will tell you that your butt no longer looks flat, your waist looks smaller or it makes you taller, or shorter, or slimmer. They'll also (gently, tactfully) let you know if it doesn't. And you know what? The recipient does not get upset or hurt, they're grateful for the complete honesty.

Inside that dressing room you'll also hear a lot of laughter. Women are giggling and making jokes and generally it's quite jovial in there. For instance, there was the time I tried on a bikini in front of my youngest daughter, who looked at me and then said, "Oh god" (and NOT in a good way). I'll be the first to admit that my skin looked like a plucked chicken (it was cold in there) and portions of my body were spilling out. Rather than get mad at her, I just started laughing hysterically. How could I get upset (it did look awful) when even the saleswomen and other patrons started laughing alongside of us (and they hadn't even seen me in the "barely there" bikini)?!

Another conversation that takes place in dressing rooms, is the fact that you might share

that when you look in your already-full closets for the next wedding or party that you are going to attend, and say to your friends that you have nothing to wear, they will understand. Or when you say you need new shoes for the outfit you just bought, because the ones you have at home won't work (even though you have several in the same basic black). Girlfriends will know exactly what that means as well. Or earrings. Or a purse. You get the idea.

Or, you can talk to a perfect stranger in the dressing room, like another shopper did with me in Tahoe. She had on a jaunty nautical-striped jacket. She wasn't sure if if had "fake" pockets on it or if they were just sewn together at the seams. She looked at me and asked my what I thought. I went over and examined the garment and determined it looked as if the pockets were sewn shut. Meanwhile, the saleswoman went to consult the manager to try and sort it out. The patron looked at me and whispered, "But what do you think?" She did not want to buy the jacket if it had "fake' pockets (said it was like teasing herself, and her hands would always head to the pseudo pockets, only to be disappointed). This woman knew she could trust me, a complete stranger. This is because women shoppers frequently consult with one another, rather than the salespeople, because "sisters" will be honest (and sometimes, the salespeople just want to make a sale, unless you are my friend Susie, than you are the very best kind of salesperson, because you put sisterhood above salesmanship and are one of "the girls," even while working!!).

Once in a while there are tears in the dressing room. Could be mine, could be a daughter of mine, could be a friend's or complete stranger. Suffice it to say that the other women will understand those incidents as well, and will more than likely lend a tissue or commiserate whatever it is that ails you (grief over a loved one, PMS, body issues, a need for chocolate or just having a sleep-deprived mommy day). No worries in the dressing room, a "sister" will understand.

I know there are so many more times that the bonds of sisterhood women share are displayed throughout any given day. Don't even get me started on women's restrooms, restaurants, concerts, or walking down the grocery aisles at your local supermarket. The end result is like the popular wedding dance song line (appropriately sung by none other than "Sister Sledge") that says, "We are family. I got all my sisters with me." We're everywhere. No wonder some men are a wee bit intimidated or scared by this fact. I think they just need to embrace it and we, "my sisters" and I, need to celebrate it!

Single Parent

I am a single parent.

Now, the father of my children (my "Ex") would probably protest that fact, and indeed, has. What I think he meant, or means, is that even though we're divorced, he is still very much involved. We co-parent together from separate households. We put on a united front regarding many, if not most, issues. I can't quite bring myself to say "all" because in reality we are two very different people, who sit in very opposite camps, on an entire host of ideals. But at the core, or at the heart, we share one main vein, we love our kids and want what's best for them.

~However~

There are times when the fact that I go it alone at "home" becomes quite evident. For instance, if you are married, and your son or daughter says something cheeky within earshot of your spouse to or about you, your partner goes ape. They'll make your child apologize. They'll defend you. If you are single, you have to do it yourself. Or there is silence. It doesn't have the same impact (unless, of course, you are me and your dad is still alive and you do giant circle prayers with the entire family before you eat at every holiday or birthday and he will take that opportunity to guilt your children into treating you with more respect...at least for that evening). So what I'm sayin' is, when your spouse does that, be grateful.

There are times when and if you have more than one child (say, for instance, you have three) you will be busy wearing so many hats and you will feel like a single parent even when you are co-parenting with said "Ex" spouse. Like when all three kids are involved in sports at the same time. You have two girls on two volleyball teams and a son playing lacrosse and they practice in three different venues in three different towns. And you work full time. And you're a teacher. And you have to cook dinner, grade papers, edit homework, get gas, do laundry, be a cheerleader, disciplinarian and you really, really do live in your Honda Odyessy Minivan. This happens even when co-parents are involved (especially if they are working as a fire fighter and are at work one third of the time and even if they wanted to help, or could, they aren't able, because when they are off-duty they need to have time alone to sleep, run errands, date and more). The point being, is you are wearing all of these hats alone and not feeling, well, successful at any of them. You can't really pause to reflect upon this fact for very long because if you do, you'll likely be late to the next event or carpool duty. And it will all catch up with you at some point and you will most certainly get walking pneumonia or the flu or at the very least, fantasize about sleep (which you had thought only happened to parents of newborns but now know differently).

Or the fact that you are a single parent becomes evident with sports teams. You are the only family that has double entries on the team roster. Two households, one child. You have "snack duty" for the entire team, on the same weekend as your other children. This means you have to provide or send snack for the kids, parents, siblings and more ( it feels like half the town of where you reside). You get extra brownie points if it's healthy or organic. You have to buy it, ice it and distribute it. Alone. That is, unless you happen upon a batch of coaches who are married and hate snack duty as much as you. If you are lucky they will set a new team rule whereby everyone provides snack for their own child or children and you are finally off the hook (thank you, Martin & Laurie, during basketball season and thank you, Jim and Dave, during soccer season). Your kids will be upset with the new snack duty and to their face you'll empathize (but inside you are jumping up and down and trying really hard not to grin in front of your kids).

Single parents have to swallow their pride. You will have to ask for help on a whole host of events and situations. For instance, you have to ask for help with the previously mentioned carting to and fro sports' practices and activities because the walking pneumonia has taught you, if nothing else, that it's okay NOT driving the kids to everything. The depressing thing about that is that you will now miss the conversations post-practice (and truth be told, they are golden opportunities to eavesdrop on your pre-teen's world, a glimpse into their lives...but be forewarned, if you SAY anything, or RESPOND to anything you'll live to regret it because then future rides will cause them to resort to whispering about the juicier nuggets of knowledge because now, now they are onto the fact that you have been silently listening all these years...you just blew it).

If you are a single parent (or me, not my ex-husband) you'll also shamelessly let other people feed your kids while you're busy carting the other ones around. I still owe hundreds of dollars of groceries to at least two families. And I'm embarrassed to admit that I found out about a year after the fact, that one mom knew my son was supposed to pack his lunch. What I found out, was that even though he and I knew he was supposed to pack his (and yes, there were lunch meats, chips, apples, fruit roll-ups and more in our pantry), he frequently didn't. Well, I thought "natural consequences" would occur and he'd finally start making them again. He didn't because the mom who knew he was supposed to pack one, also knew he didn't and SHE started making him sandwiches! She packed two of them in HER son's lunch so he could feed MY son, his friend. It took me nearly two years to discover this fact. I nearly died of embarrassment. I shamelessly began to make elaborate lunches for my son near the end of his junior year, and all through his senior one, as a result. His older sister protested that I hadn't done the same for her while SHE was in high school and his younger sister reminds me each night before I go to bed that I need to make her lunch (parental guilt is the golden ticket in a kid's world mind you). That is when being a single parent makes me turn a little red-faced and my conscience leads me into getting up 15 minutes earlier or hitting the sack 15 minutes later...to make lunches.

I also am reminded, or have learned to appreciate, the fact that in my "married" life my spouse was a handyman, a good one, excellent even. I do not share that gene. I mean, I can read a manual. I can go on the Internet to learn how to fix something (like faucets that spray water, or how to change air filters and more) but it's not like I'm naturally good at it. I now have to pay someone to help me at times. Or "the daddies" we know come lend me a ladder so I can change the lightbulb in my entryway.

As a single parent I've had to teach my son how to tie his tie. Having never done that before, I went to the Internet yet again & printed out directions (See? I CAN follow directions!). This goes well enough for a few years until my son realizes if he leaves the tie pre-tied on a hanger it will save a few steps the next time. As we sit there and work over that slender piece of fabric around his neck, I feel that familiar lump in my throat yet. I am touched that we are sharing this moment, that my son displays no ill-will toward me and that it is a tender moment that I doubt I would have shared with him if I was still married (but then again, I'm reminded that dad might have been at the firehouse and perhaps we would have had that chance after all).

One other thing about being a single parent in a rather affluent area, is the anxiety that is produced when you go out with groups of families (at least at the beginning of divorce when incomes are divided and you are living within your burn rate and not wanting to acquire any debt). Group meals out are expensive. You try to gently tell your kids to order the cheaper items on the menu, you forgo drinks and generally try to enjoy the evening and conversation and joy of being with everyone (while in the back of your mind you are hoping you have enough cash in your wallet to contribute your fair share). You'll know it will be okay because you have skipped dining out for the past few weeks and generally live quite frugally. The bill will arrive and some other dad will say he has your portion covered. And your eyes will well up and your heart will be touched again as you learn that for this point in your life you have had to learn to receive, rather than give. That is a very hard lesson to learn but one single parents do. Again and again and again.

In countless ways, in numerous places and with scads of people, this town, the schools my children have attended, the sports they have played, the coaches, teachers, family and friends have shown this single parent that it really truly does "take a village" to raise a child. Or co-parent. I have learned, that being a single parent is humbling, exhausting and embarrassing. It is the toughest job I've ever had. And the most rewarding.

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?