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Today:
Tomorrow will be easier!
Is it Friday yet?
I left North Carolina when I was 18 and never got much of a chance to go back. I visited, sure, but everybody knows it's not the same. It's true that you can't really go back, and even more true when your parents don't live there anymore. And if your old friends' parents don't live there anymore either? Well, just forget it. Even if you do go back, there's nowhere to go.
My mom faced breast cancer like the trouper she is. She squared her shoulders, took the chemical beatings, and shouldered on. Did she falter? Did she cry? I’m sure she did. But as she has for all of my life, she kept her sorrow private, wiped her tears, and put the fighting gloves on for the rest of it.
Because my mom is like this, I knew she’d go in fighting. But I didn’t know how hard it would be to watch her fight. I didn’t know what it would feel like to see her lose her hair, select her scarves, draw on her eyebrows, and still make it to the grocery store. I didn’t know that even if she beat the cancer, the after-effects of the poison that killed it would linger, reminding us all of the silent stalker that came after her.
And it’s not just her. My mother-in-law’s dear, dear friend lost her battle recently, with my mother-in-law by her side. My friend Janet’s mom fought breast cancer over 10 years ago. Last year it returned, and she’s fighting again. Another friend – a mom of 4 young boys – is battling breast cancer right now. She’s not even 40.
Is it surprising that every 3 minutes someone in the United States is diagnosed with breast cancer? You know someone, right? Sure you do. We all do. It’s that scary. And yet in the midst of the fear, there’s hope. Hope remains because—like my mom, and Janet’s mom, and my mother-in-law’s friend, and my young girlfriend—there are a lot of fighters in this world, and some of them are doctors who are working hard to find a cure. As they fight that fight, they need our help. They need our funds.
There are a million different ways to contribute. You might recall that last year some friends and I walked in the Race for the Cure, with their pretty pink port-a-potties.
We walked our 5 miles and made our donations, and I hope we do it again next year.
And recently, I heard from my old college friend, Amy, whom I met when we were just 18 and full of certainty, and with whom I spent a semester of college trolling around Europe. Amy was planning to walk in Avon’s Walk for Breast Cancer in Boston and she sent out an e-mail letting friends and family know they could contribute. And my, oh my, did they!
On May 16 & 17, Amy joined 2,500 others who walked 39.3 miles to raise money for this fight. Her friends and family contributed over $3000—part of the more than $5.6 million raised and given as grants to Boston area organizations. Amy said that the most moving part of the experience came when she was randomly chosen, as one walker was every three minutes, and “draped with a large pink ribbon banner that read, ‘Every Three Minutes.’” As she continued her walk, Amy said that she “thought about the woman who had just learned of her battle ahead. I walked with new purpose for her,” she said, “and for all of the other fighters.”
Forget about trolling around Europe. This is my new memory of my friend, and I thank her from the bottom of my heart.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Does that word have you singing the old Aretha song? That one little word has resonated with fans throughout the years in part, I think, because we get it. We all get it. Is there anyone who doesn’t desire a healthy dose of respect from others – from our friends, family, and even strangers? When it comes to marriage, it’s the same story: we deeply desire the respect of our spouse. And, in the beginning, it seems pretty simple. It seems easy, even. Because when you’ve recently fallen in love, there’s no end to the things you admire and respect about your beloved and he admires and respects about you. Easy as pie.
Flash forward. Add pets, a house, yard work, and jobs. Throw in a couple of kids, housework, chores, chores and a few more chores. Add different interests and new friendships. Mix in a healthy dose of difficult parenting choices, less and less time together as a couple, and there you have it: A Full-Blown Recipe for Disaster.
What's a girl to do? See my post over at Wedded Bliss today for more.
I took the day off from blogging yesterday, but Heather said what I would’ve said anyway. With two words, and two images, she said it all. Thanks, Heather.
And because I am a girl who likes to relax on her holidays, a girl who really believes in life balance and taking time off, I spent yesterday lounging by the pool, watching my kids frolic, and enjoying the frosty beverage in my hand. Ahhh, the peace.
Oh wait, no, that’s not right. What I meant was that I spent the day scraping and mixing and painting and sweating.
I did enjoy watching my kids, but they weren’t frolicking so much as moaning about the injustice of having to dig and pull weeds all afternoon.
At one point, my eldest claimed a stomachache. It’s fair to say that his paint-covered, suspicious parents didn’t show much empathy for the shirker. Get back to work, buddy, and here—take this barf bag with you, just in case. Funny how he recovered so quickly.
Since we were planning such a big workday yesterday, you might think we took it easy when my mom and dad came into town last week. Well, you’d think. Also, you might think we’d consider their long drive, that we’d wonder if they were tired, or wanted to do something fun. Or, you might think I’m the kind of daughter that says, “Hey dad, can you help me repair this tiny little rotten wood around our door frame?”
If you thought the latter, you’d be right.
And if you’ve ever had a tiny little rotten piece of wood around your door frame, you know the rest of the story, right? There is NEVER a tiny little rotten piece of wood. It’s ALWAYS hiding a bigger problem. My suggestion? Ignore it. Paint over it. Look the other way. But, dear Lord, don’t ask your dad to take it out, because you will end up with this.
The good news is that in the end both the door frame and the paint job look good. But I am definitely ignoring that other tiny little piece of rotting wood. Definitely.
You ate food so fast,
When you were a tiny pup.
Now you pick and choose.
You jumped in the air,
Chased every Frisbee and ball,
You lived to play hard.
You’re slowing down now.
Still as faithful as ever,
The boys love you so.
“Boys,” I said sweetly, “Welcome to our house. I forgot to let you all know that this is a CELL PHONE FREE PARTY. You can call or text your mom or dad, of course, but otherwise, I’d prefer if you left your phones alone during the party.”
“Okay."
"Sure."
"That’s fine.”
I can't be sure, but I suspect it was my southern upbringing that completely ruined me for shoes. I'd rather not wear them. Yes, that's right. I still don't want to wear them, Mom. I understand that I'm a grown-up, that I'm a responsible mother of 3, but I'd prefer to be barefoot any day of the week. Since that's not entirely socially acceptable, my next choice is sandals, my casual fave being flip-flops, of course.
There are so many things I treasure about my close friends that it’s hard to name just a few. Women around the world know this, I think. They understand that time spent with girlfriends has an un-nameable quality. There's something we can’t quite put our manicured fingers on. (I know, I know, mine aren’t manicured, but most of theirs are!) These elements are nearly univeral. Laughter. Wine. Honesty. Wine. Soul Bearing Conversation. Light-Hearted Companionship. Understanding. Wine. Affirmation. Assurance that we are definitely right and that other person is definitely wrong. And, we look fine. Skinny even. With good hair. Whatever it is that happens there, when girlfriends gather, it touches our souls.
Men, on the other hand, well, I can’t really speak to that. My husband is never, ever going to give a lengthy discourse about bromance and the importance of manly friendships; nor will he mention the touching of souls; it's very safe to say he won't ever publish any kind of touchy-feely men’s book. He loves his friends. I know this. But he’s never gonna say it.
As a sort-of related aside, I recently listened to someone, very unlike my husband, pitch a book idea to an editor. Both the author and editor were men – and the conversation went something like this:
“So, what I’m thinking is this. I’m thinking that as men we need to get in touch with our feminine side. We’ve really lost the ability to share deeply with one another in a really real way.
“Oh, right, I’m with you. Sounds like a good idea. Tell me more.”
“Well, my book will address how we men fail each other regularly because we don’t open ourselves up to those woman-like feelings and share them with each other.”
“That sounds like a great concept. I’d like to see more.”
Huh? Seriously. This really happened. And I sat there thinking, “What? What?” Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for men sharing feelings and sending flowers, and possibly even buying me a convertible one day, but that? That’s a great book idea? Lord give me strength. Help me persevere through the wilderness, the impossible-to-understand world that is publishing. Amen.
Okay, back to the story.
Although my husband won’t be writing a book like that anytime soon, or ever, he does have a close-knit group of friends. Some of these guys gave up their weekend—time they could've spent with their families, or golfing, or taking a really long nap—to repair a leak in the roof of our carriage house. In the beginning, it was a leaking, rotting, termite-filled hazard.
And then they did this.
And this.
And now it looks like this.
Without ever saying a word about feelings or authenticity or the importance of sharing, these guys stepped up and said it all.
Fred, Brent, Brad & Kurt: Thank you. I'll say it on my husband's behalf: You guys ROCK!
When I was younger and more naïve, when I was attending college in the Northeast and considering how I’d make my way in the world, and when I was much more certain about how things ought to be done, I often said this to my friends: “I could live a lot of places. I’d live on either coast, or even in Texas. I just wouldn’t want to live in the middle. I mean, why would you?”
You can all pause now, and have a nice, hearty laugh at my expense.
To read more about what's happened since I left Connecticut, San Francisco, and Seattle--and to see a photo of me from those young and naïve days--click on over to Midwest Parents for the full story.
