The last letter

Well, this is it. I knew it would come one day. But I also knew that I still wouldn't be ready.  You've been my pen pal for twenty years now. Twenty years! I know that for you, having been 88 and all, that's sort of just a drop in the bucket. But for me? That's more than half my life. If Gramma had lived, it might be that she had been the intended recipient. But she left us, and it was up to the two of us to forge our way through and figure it out. So I wrote to you. And you saved it all - every last bit of it - and now, without even knowing it (or maybe you did?), you've given me this gift. My life, in snapshot form, there on your faded, red counter for me to rediscover. Every trip I've taken. Every bit of mundane nonsense I've babbled about. Every apartment and car and assignment and job I've ever had was there, documented and ready to relive. It's like having a conversation with you, which is something I have to understand will never happen again.

Life got so busy with three kids, a husband, a job, a house. You understood; you lived it. And I know you knew it without my even knowing you did. So the letters slowed down. Never stopped, but slowed down. Because life sped up. Instead of details about my comings and goings, you opened Christmas cards and party invitations. Instead of postcards from far-off places (I really did see the world, didn't I?), you opened updated wallet sized pictures of little boys who loved you so much. Each new picture different - crazy teeth, no teeth, crazy hair, no hair - all of them marking another change in life for us, while your life chugged steadily along with change so much more subtle that I almost didn't notice. First a cane, then a walker, but always (always) a Subaru, always your music, always your smile and your absolute refusal to admit defeat.

Until now.

So here is my one last letter to you. I know you can't open it. I know you can't save it. But I hope beyond hope that you'll feel the love it's filled with from wherever you are.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Dear Poppy,

Hi there, my old Poppy Pop Pop. We went by your house the other day. We knew you wouldn't be there, and it was so strange to be there without you. But with every step inside, I could feel you. I could smell you. And I can't tell you how much I wished I could hug you again.

We used to talk about everything. I loved to hear your stories. Old tales about your mom ("Mother"), who so desperately wanted proper young gentlemen, but who instead had to wrangle you and your crazy brother out of the pond and into white gloves. I never could quite picture you the proper one. And I still love your refusal to attend anything if you had to wear socks. We used to talk about your love - my Gramma (who probably would have forced you to wear socks to my wedding, by the by.) Your life together, and how much we both missed her. We talked about the old world and what it was like, how it changed, what it became.  We talked about politics and culture, sometimes religion, and we talked about how you built the life around you.

I still have questions.  But you can't answer them.  And this hurts my heart.

You were never quite certain what would happen in "the after."  You didn't think much of much would go on. But Gramma had so much faith in her faith, and she never doubted. So which is it? Did you find each other? Can you see us and feel our love for you across space and time? Could you see us all together - your family that you created - in the house that you built, sharing stories and smiles and tears?  I hope so. And as much as I miss you and am sad to see you go, I have to say this: Whatever it is, you finally solved the mystery of what happens "after". I wish you could share this last tidbit of wisdom, but I know it doesn't work like that. So I will think about you often and wonder. And I will miss you.

Thank you for saving my letters. Rereading them is a gift. A glimpse into the past. My own personal time capsule. I will treasure it always.

So that's it, then. I'll go on my way. And you go on yours. Until we meet again, if that is indeed what shall pass.

I love you so much. But you always knew that.

Love, Alli

p.s. Thanks for all those years of breakfast dates. You were right. The pancakes were fabulous.

p.p.s. If you could please just go find Nancy Reagan, I really do need to know what she thinks about Donald Trump. This I must insist on.  xoxo

Nine is just fine

I've never been overly impressed with the "six" year of any given decade. Nothing against them - it's just that they were always one year before or one year after something really cool happened. 1985: my baby sister was born. 1987: I turned 10. 1986: just bleh. 1995: I graduated from high school. 1997: I started dating my love. 1996: just bleh. 2005: Mr. '97 and I got married. 2007: We bought our first house. 2006: WAIT! FIRST BABY WAS BORN! NOT BLEH AT ALL! (Although, on days when he wouldn't stop screaming even for a gulp of air, I was totally wishing for some bleh.)

The little guy who finally made a "six year" worth something!

So now, as the calendar has turned to 2016, my initial reaction was to be like, "Oh, a "six" year? Bleh. Nothing much to see here."  Except that, a minute later, I was like, "Oh, holy hell! Wait a minute! 2006 was a big deal, which means that 2016 is just as exciting!"  Because my "baby" boy, the one whose socks are now confused with mine in the laundry, is turning ten this year. Double digits, my friends! It's the only major digit change in this boy's life until he reaches the big 1-0-0! (Which his children had better celebrate grandly, so help me.)

But here's a secret: I'm sort of wishing we could just pause here for a bit. Because nine is not bleh. Nine is charming. Nine is sweetness and sass, both in manageable amounts. Ten scares me. Ten looks way too much like middle school and girls and the reality that is hours of homework and friends doing crazy things. But nine? Nine is just fine, thank you very much. And nine is all mine.

Nine rushes downstairs in the morning to check SportsCenter, but does it clutching blankie in the remote control hand.

Nine tries to cuddle and nuzzle in for a hug, but almost tips me over doing it with the force of a wild boar.

Nine believes in all the magic of the world but all the rationality of the times tables in equal parts.

Nine wants to swim out to the deep end to do tricks, but wants me to watch each and every one.

Nine wants to go to school to see his friends, but runs off the bus and into my car every day back to our safe cocoon.  

Nine loves Sponge Bob, but still laughs at Sesame Street.

Nine loves me in all of its single digit glory.

I really hope that ten doesn't come along and tell him that loving his mommy is "so last decade." And when he hits the triple digits in another far-off, not-so-bleh six year? I hope that third digit wants a hug from me just as badly. Wherever I am, I'll be waiting for it.

~ {p.s.} ~

I sometimes wonder where this little face has gone to...

but then this guy wants to cuddle and read a story, and I suddenly see that it's been right there this whole time.

An unexpected magical moment

A few years ago, I had either been feeling extra jolly, or I had just had a nice glass of red. But either way, the result is that our Christmas card had the following message in it:

"Every day has a bit of magic to be found. Look for it. Believe in it. And treasure it always."

Well, here's the thing. It's sometimes rather difficult to look for magic in a day when you're busy yelling and looking for the one missing shoe that is going to make your kids miss the bus. Life is chaotic. Every day. All the time. And lately, with the rush of the holidays and the general mess that is life with children, I feel like I've lost my way from my original optimistic message.

My coping mechanism has been to sneak out of bed and down the stairs around six in the morning in an attempt to be somewhat productive until the house wakes up. I grade papers, or I make lunches, or sometimes - dare I say it - I just enjoy a quiet room. I may get thirty minutes. Sometimes I get a full, blessed hour. (This is when I hear the actual angels on high.)

So today, just as I sat down on the couch with a most glorious cup of coffee, I heard the creak of size 9 baby feet creeping down the stairs. Creak, creak, creak. And I cringed just a bit. I am ashamed to even admit it, but I did. Because I really just wanted to be left alone for one minute.

But then, just as I felt myself getting irritated, this happened:

He shuffled silently over, climbed right up, and lay his soft little head in my lap. The warmth of this little boy in pajamas filled me with so much love. Peace that was almost tangible settled on my shoulders and into my being, and I saw what it was all about. Over his head, I could see all of our family memories on this tree. The macaroni wreath of a preschooler, a baby handprint made as we held our little bundle, a popsicle stick snowflake that came home crammed into a backpack - all of these hold a moment frozen in time where our boys have handed these things to us with their chubby little hands and so much pride in their eyes. And this littlest boy with his littlest hands lay on me with trust and so much love, and I felt my heart grow in that moment.

In the end, I did nothing productive before we started our day, but I was every bit the better for it. Because this was today's bit of magic to be found. And I will treasure it always.

Accepting It

Our oldest "gentleman" just turned 9, followed by his brothers, 6 and 3, so we've had them for a while now (and I guess we'll keep 'em). It's taken some time, but we're finally starting to get a handle on this whole parenting thing. Only recently, however, have I come to realize this: No matter what I say or how I plead, there are a few truths in our crazy life that I never expected to come to terms with, but shockingly, come to terms with It all I have.

(Please note: "It" will henceforth be referred to as a proper noun with a capital I, because It is a being unto itself, a thing who comes to live amongst your family members right under your nose, completely unnoticed by you until the very day you realize that life is going on, but not at all according to plan, because It does not actually care what you had planned.)

So after nine years, this is what It means to us:

It means that every time I take a shower, there will be a conflict / injury / general discontent in some other quadrant of the home involving cartoon choice / Pokemon card debate / wrestling injury that I will be able to hear through running water AND a closed door. No joke - every single time. People, I just want clean hair and a moment of peace. Why don't they get It?

It means that if I clean my car inside and out on a Wednesday, this same car will end up twice as dirty by the stroke of midnight on Thursday - goldfish literally swimming out of the seat cracks and the rear windows smeared with disgusting mystery opaqueness. I appear not to have any regard for cleanliness or my surroundings regardless of what I do. I cannot solve It.

It means that one child will always wake up at least one other child in the house at a ridiculously early hour, no matter what I promise or what I threaten. I cannot control It.

It means that by the time all the children are in some type of safe learning environment and I'm on my way to work, I will need to find a way to disguise at least one smudge of substance, identifiable or otherwise, on my skirt and/or shoulder before I start my day. It also means that regardless of personal preference, I wear more patterns and fewer solids because of the need to camouflage It.

It means that no matter how I instruct the children otherwise, at least one of them will come home with dirty trash in their lunch boxes. For the love of all that's holy, can we at least agree that the Gogurts need not be returned home half-consumed? Are they thinking of finishing them later? Are they just that lazy? Gross, boys. The word for It is gross.

It means that at the end of the day, I will be exhausted from defending valid arguments against nonsensical beings. Oreos are not ever going to be for breakfast, but after a 20 minute tantrum, there's a quick second where I think It would be easier to just give in.

It means that as much as I have whimsical visions of my boys being a walking ad for Baby Gap, Mini Boden, or similar, they will instead look like this:

His hat pains me, but it was his birthday dream come true. I can possibly persuade him to wear a polo shirt once a year for an hour photo shoot, but only if the Red Sox necklace stays on.

And this:

He is dressed like a different character every day.
I can still trick him into wearing polos and boat shoes on occasion.

And this:

This guy? Always looks like a mad scientist.
He may or may not be wearing clothes at any given point in the day, polo shirt or otherwise.

I have to find the pride that at least they are taking charge and finding their own identities. And wearing underwear. (Sometimes.) It's the little things, isn't It?

And finally, as I deal with It day after day after day, the children are somehow suddenly years older, and I realize that It is life. And whether or not I like their flat brim hats or character T-shirts, I had better get on board anyway, because if I don't, I am going to wake up, and It is going to have passed me by.

It may mean that daily life will never be totally in my control - sigh, wipe boogers off shoulder, shove slimy lunchbox into dishwasher that I will forget to run. 

But It will never mean Oreos for breakfast. For them. But me? I have earned It.

What should have been your happily ever after

To a certain woman whose life changed so drastically all those years ago today,

You were supposed to have been engaged. You were meant to have the most beautiful, perfectly perfect of rings, one flawless diamond flanked by an equally perfect sapphire on either side. Platinum, I'm guessing, because he knew that's what you would want. That ring on your finger would be the start of a life together. Of a family, maybe. Of children who never had the chance to know either their mother or their father. Because they never had the chance to be born.

I think of you often, sometimes at the oddest of moments. You had such an impact on me, on my view on life, which is odd considering I don't know who you are.

But I do know enough.

You had a boyfriend. You wanted a fiancé. And I'm sure you told him so, just as I did mine. Maybe you described your perfect ring. Maybe he just knew you loved blue. But either way, he nailed it. He had that ring made at a small store in Waterbury, Connecticut, and honestly, it was beyond gorgeous.

He had it made for you. Just for you. Because you were the one for him. Because you were his future.

But he went to New York on September 11, 2001. I don't know where he worked. I don't know if he was just visiting that day. But I do know that he never came back.

And that ring. Your ring. It sat there in the back of that small jewelry store, waiting to be claimed. By you, who may not even have known it existed. Because he never had the chance to pick it up.

And when I walked into that store one fall day, a few months after the terrorists rocked our world, it was just for a moment of whimsy. To pretend that I really was looking for a ring. Just to be fanciful, really. Just how it probably started for you.

"I have just the thing you're describing," the jeweler said to me. "It's right about your size, too - you can try it on just to get a feel for the color."

"It's gorgeous," I said, showing the ring to my mother, who had indulged my fantasy and come into the jewelry store with me, allowing me to dream of a day when an actual engagement ring would be mine. I tried it on as a play thing, as a shiny piece of pretend, not knowing that what I had on my finger should really have been on yours.

"It was actually a special design I made for someone," he said. "He died in the Trade Center on 9/11. The ring has been sitting here, waiting to be claimed."

I actually lost my ability to breathe for a moment. And I could not, could not, get that ring off of my finger fast enough. Your ring. The one you should have had on your left hand. The hand that should have been flipping through wedding magazines and holding champagne, not crumpling tissues and wiping tears.

I hope that finger wears a different ring now. And I hope you have children, who carry a future on which to hang hope. And that your babies, getting so big so fast, want to play dress up and pretend and watch your wedding video of Mommy and Daddy, another Prince Charming who found his way to you, giving you a different, unimagined version of happily ever after.

And I hope with all hope that your ring made its way to you and that you have it tucked away as a pocket of love to cherish. I never knew you. And I never knew him. But there's one indisputable fact that I know to be true: He loved you so much. And he most certainly wanted you to have it.

A little bit of perspective and a little bit of shame

It's been one of those days.

The boys have been fighting. And not listening. And fighting. And not listening. And just for good measure, fighting some more. It was our first real day of summer vacation because we've been on the go until today. Our first day of downtime. Our first day without any type of schedule to speak of. We were not coping well.

 "Mom? Mom? Mommy? Mom? Mommy? Moooommmmmm???" is what I've had screamed in my general direction for roughly 10 hours now.

So by the time Mason decided to use the nice note cards that I just bought after I had already said no 28 times, I. Was. Done. And I exploded.

"No one ever listens!" I ranted. "I'm sick of it! It's ridiculous! Why does no one ever listen to me when I say no??!?"

Ugh.

"But Mommy," he started to sob, "I was just writing everyone a note!"

And he was. One for each brother. One for Daddy. One for me. "Momi," he wrote carefully on the front of the envelope in his perfectly practiced kindergarten handwriting.

Giant crocodile tears streamed down his face. He cried with all of his five-year-old might. He was heartbroken. And then, all of a sudden, so was I.

This is what I found in his sad little hand:

In case you can't read his "Mason phonics", it says:
"Momi, Luve You, Mason" (written in what he has decided is cursive)

And in that moment, a five year old taught his thirty-seven-year-old mother a lesson. Life is short. Hearts are fragile. And note cards, no matter how much they cost, are just paper - meaningless without precious sentiment poured inside.

I'm willing myself to guard this moment carefully and revisit it again when I need perspective, even if it is 28 times a day. Because really, I should know better.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll write the little guy an apology. I think I know just the note card to use.

To the girl in the blue bikini

It just happened to be your chosen spot of relaxation that put you in my path. I saw you, quite literally, as soon as my feet hit the sand.

I was the crazed lady pushing a toddler in a stroller while I chased children - plural - and balanced a beach bag that contained magazines - zero, pails - three, and beverages - the boring kind.

You were the girl in a lovely cobalt bikini relaxing on your blanket, propped up on your beach bag that most likely contained magazines - three, pails - zero, and beverages - the fun kind. You were reading a Nicholas Sparks book. And you gave me a smile that said, "Oh, you poor, poor, crazy, crazy lady." But not in a mean way. In a "I can't even imagine for a second what it's like to be you" way.

We both had a nice pedicure. The similarity stopped there. (And you are grateful for that.)

But you see, this has happened to me once before.

She was the crazed lady unloading an SUV full of children - plural - onto a sidewalk in Brookline in the summer of '03.

I was the girl in the lovely sundress parking my VW Cabrio across the street from her. I gave her a smile that said, "Oh, you poor, poor, crazy, crazy lady." But not in a mean way. In a "I can't even imagine for a second what it's like to be you" way.

We both had a nice pedicure. The similarity stopped there. (And I was grateful for that.)

"I used to be you," she said, smiling back at me. "I had that same car. That was a lifetime ago."

And off she went, crazy children in tow. I remember it as if it were an hour ago, not twelve years ago.

Now, in the summer of '15, I see how the torch has been passed.

At the end of the day, I saw you once again as you still sat in blissful silence on a sand-free blanket while I walked by, crazy children in tow.

"I used to be you," I said, smiling back at you. "I had that same bikini. That was a lifetime ago."

And off I went with my children - plural - to load my beach bag into an SUV that most definitely was not a convertible.