The Face of Planned Parenthood

With the unprecedented social media blitz raining down on Planned Parenthood as we enter the latest way-too-long election cycle, I figured it was time to pipe up. It comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me that the hashtag #istandwithplannedparenthood would be one that I support. But for anyone who found their way to this blog via our Pare Down Facebook page, or a recipe on Pinterest, and who now wants nothing to do with Pare Down, I invite you to give this a read.


First, a little about me. I am a mother of two wonderful boys who were planned (kind of, they showed up more on their schedule than mine, but you get the gist) and wanted. My husband and I welcomed them into a home that was well stocked with clothes, diapers, a grip of baby gear, and hugs and kisses to spare. I loved setting up the nursery, and then adapting it to welcome a second son, almost as much as I loved the babies themselves. Almost. But come on, this was cute!

How lucky were we? Our boys were healthy. We had the means to support them. We had the emotional maturity to take care of them (insert booger joke here). I am grateful that I never had to face the choice of what to do in the case of an unwanted or unsafe pregnancy. But if I had, I would again feel grateful to live in a country where this very painful, very personal decision would have been both safe and legal. Because let's be straight on this one topic, when abortions were illegal they still happened. Rich women traveled to obtain them safely, and poor women resorted to more dangerous measures, but abortions were still being performed. There is a great short documentary from 1992 called When Abortion Was Illegal that is currently streaming on YouTube. Let those women tell you themselves how illegal abortion affected their lives, because unlike me they lived through it.

Again, I support safe and legal abortions. You don't have to. I don't have the ability (or desire) to change an anti-abortionist's stance on the issue any more than they could change mine. But that's a moot point, because abortion is legal. Signed, stamped, out-of-the-alleys-since-1973 legal. People can protest all they want, it's their American right, but like it or leave it abortion is here to stay.

What we do stand to lose is universal access to Planned Parenthood, that often vilified baby-hating abortion factory. This is where I take issue.

While I have never had an abortion, I have certainly taken advantage of Planned Parenthood. When you wonder what kind of woman would go there, the answer is me. I used to go there. A lot. For five years, while I was fresh out of college and struggling with an acting career, Planned Parenthood was my main source of health care.

When I lived in Chicago, Planned Parenthood provided yearly pap exams and discounted birth control. (Not that I was having sex. Are you kidding? My parents read this blog.) Even better, when I was living in Los Angeles and among that city's throng of nearly homeless acting hopefuls, my healthcare at Planned Parenthood was free. Yes, you read that correctly. At a time when I couldn't afford a latte, I could still see a doctor for any number of lady problems, and good ol' generic people problems, without having to cough up a dime. Granted I had to get buzzed in through a bullet-proof glass entryway to get there, but once inside it was just your average doctors office with crappy old magazines and daytime TV in the lobby.

It's odd that no one is talking about the other services that Planned Parenthood provides. Sure, a standard pelvic exam won't rile voters the same way that an inflammatory video does, but it's just as big a part of the story. Statistically, it accounts for the majority of the story. My own husband grew up being taught that the only service PP provided was that of abortion. This is untrue. Let it be known: For many of the nation's poor, and for those not-so-poor who may not have great reproductive coverage through their standard insurance, Planned Parenthood is a gateway to receiving quality, affordable healthcare. That's it. By threatening to steal their funding and forcing a number of their doors to close, we are denying many of this nation's men and women their right to receive basic exams, prescriptions, and yearly checkups.

So thank you, Planned Parenthood, for all that you provided me in the years when I would have had to go without ever seeing a doctor. Thank you for enabling me to take control of my body and make well-informed reproductive choices. I am so grateful for the care, and happy to report that my planned journey to parenthood has been a success.

Musical Bees

There was a brief moment yesterday when I thought I was going to die.

Let's back up. Go grab a cup of coffee, this is a long one.

It has been an odd bee season for us, to say the least. Of my two colonies - which we'll now just refer to as Green and White for ease - one made it through the winter and one died. So my brother Kris and I did a split and thought all was grand. Moving on.

Next on the docket, my bro and I installed a package of bees four doors down at the parents' place. It was an odd package that I am 90% certain had an extra rogue queen (it happens, apparently) and those ladies split themselves on day one...wouldn't take to the new hive...half wanted to live in the package box and the other half took up residence in a fence post...I was stung for the first time as a beekeeper and the 2 bees got stuck in my pant fabric, so it was a doozy...and just when we thought we had it all fixed, a mid-May snow storm swooped in and froze them all. Poor ladies didn't stand a chance.

What to do? Why, email Don the Bee Mentor of course! He pulled a Hail Mary late in the bee season and hooked us up with Prairie Wind Bee Supply out of Cheyenne, who happened to have some extra nucs on hand for a May 31 delivery. Winner winner.

Have you ever picked up a nuc, when lots of nucs are being picked up? It's not like your average package bee pickup, with a bunch of bees flying around but all the girls are a little confused and stoned. Nope. This was different. This was thousands of pissed, angry bees flying around defending their 5-frame homes and wondering what the hell just happened as they traveled from Wyoming to Colorado on the back of a flat bed trailer, through crazy rain and killer heat, for a few hours. Add to that a handful of novice beekeepers trying to prove their beekeeper-ness by standing in the middle of all this, not swatting (Just like they were taught! A+, idiots.), and doing their best to hold the panic on the inside.

What did Kris and I do? We got out of the damn way. And still got stung! This was a mad house. The poor guy running the deal was probably stung a dozen times while we were waiting for our bees. It was crazy times. I'm sure he went back to Cheyenne and contemplated a new career...perhaps breeding dogs? Yeah, puppies are a great idea.

FYI - this is what an average bee sting does to my hand. My hand is that thing that looks like a plump, smooth foot. My pinkie finger turned into a baby sausage. I didn't get stung once in the last 2 years, and now I'm two for two on the new hive. Bitches.

But we did it. We got our bees, my brother and I, jumped into my Outback, and started our hour plus drive home.

At first there was only one bee in the back window, where the nuc was.

And then there were four.

And then we hit a bump, and suddenly there were 20 or so. I sent Kris back with the camera phone while I calmly sped along the highway doing 80 mph. This is what he came back with.

Oh shit. Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit. Hey Prairie Wind, maybe next time, don't skimp on the duct tape? Hundreds of bees spilling into the back of the car, half an hour to go, repeating "Bees and dogs smell fear" over and over in my head. Nothing to do but turn up the radio - thank you, Bob Marley - and drive on.

And we did. And we made it. And the bees were housed.

Kris runs that hive, so we'll call all iterations from here on out KBees. They were transferred into their deep, surrounded by friendly scrub oak and pines. They have a running stream in the yard (fake, but it looks real), and plenty of blossoms to nosh on. All was well. We planned to check them in two weeks.

Meanwhile, back on the Pare Down farm...

Something was amiss with the green hive. It went from bustling to dwindling, while the white hive continued to act as the Grand Central Station of bees. A previous bee check a few weeks back looked fine: queen cups in the green hive, eggs and larva (and the old queen) in the white hive. But that new queen was either poorly mated or eaten by a bird, because when we popped the top yesterday all we saw were drones and a scatter shot of drone cells.

Ruh-roh. It was like LoDo on a Friday night. (A little Men-ver humor for you locals.)

Well poop. Suddenly we were back to 2 living colonies. Can we not catch a break, bees?

Then, miracle.

Kris and I went to check on KBees. They were fine that morning. We had an extra super in hand since we're down a deep and need to buy another, and were planning on a quick peek, add the super, call it a day. We were three days past our 2-week inspection deadline. So what did those girls do, only moments before we arrived? They swarmed! Nature called, and 40% of the bees stayed in the hive with the new queen, while roughly 60% of the bees were now bunched around the old queen on a very tall stand of scrub oak in my parents' yard.

Ha! We bounced those drones out of my green hive (sorry fellas) and decided to catch our first swarm. This looks like a promo for a Jackass movie.

Keep in mind throughout this process that my mom ("I never even wanted these bees!") is taking pictures on my iPhone, and my two kids are watching from the balcony of my parents' house. Our plan, since I am short and weak while Kris is big and brave, was to put the deep on the top of the ladder, Kris would climb up while I held everything steady from below, and he'd shake the bees into the box. What could go wrong?

Ready. Steady. Shake down! And bees went into the box according to plan, but the rest of them EXPLODED around us.

This was the death moment. As I felt the nuclear rain of bees upon my whole body I had the slow motion time to consider the following:

"This was a dumb idea. This was your worst fucking idea ever. You are about to be consumed by the sting of a thousand bees while your mom takes pictures and your children watch you die from a safe distance. Save the bees? Save yourself next time, you dumbass."

But we didn't die!

I wish there was video of Kris jumping off the ladder (like a little girl) and me catching it as the whole shebang almost toppled into the bushes before we both fled to safety. This picture does not do it justice. (Run, Forest!)

We (Kris, me, the bees, my mom who thought she would see 2 of her 3 kids die that day) all recovered quickly. The ladies were confused but just as docile as all the blogs of experienced beekeepers claim. And now that we knew what to expect, the process finished up pretty quickly. 2 more rounds of Operation Shakedown resulted in all bees being successfully caught!

And ten minutes later, the newest version of the Green Ladies were at home and happily exploring their new surroundings. This morning, all is well in the bee queendoms.

So what did we learn today, fellow and future beekeepers?

1. Don't beekeep in yoga pants. Yoga pants are for in-home drinking and the occasional bout of actual yoga.
2. Cardboard nuc boxes are lame. 
3. Always have a roll of duct tape on hand. Always. Wear it on your belt if you have to.
4. Don't procrastinate, as bee life waits for no man. But if you do, you may end up with a swarm miracle that fills an empty hive. So...do procrastinate. 
5. Don't do potentially deadly things while your kids watch, even if they are not as deadly as they seem, because your screams of panic will scar your kids regardless of the outcome.
6. Wine is great (duh), but after an exhilarating bee experience, I recommend a small batch gin and some good lemonade. 

Happy beekeeping.

Life is Better

Gabe and I celebrated our 6th wedding anniversary yesterday. That was one great party...from what I remember. I look really happy in the pictures. It was just such a blur - show up, pull on fancy dress without ruining makeup or hair, walk down the aisle, put the ring on the wrong finger, cut the cake, dance a little, and suddenly we apparated in a hotel room and found ourselves ordering Silver Mine Subs and high-fiving each other for pulling off such a grown up act.

In honor of that high five and the six successful years that have followed, I'd like to share six lessons that have served us well. I'm not saying that we practice these 100% of the time, but I can say that life is better when we do.

Life is better when...

...you assume that your partner is always on your side.
...you don't bother with whose turn it is to do something, like change a diaper or do the laundry, and just do it.
...you do little things to make each other's day better, or easier, without attaching the price tag of being acknowledged.
...you regularly take time alone, sans kids and responsibilities, to remind yourselves why you like each other and wanted to start all this madness in the first place.
...you discuss a problem immediately rather than letting it stew and intensify.
...you can laugh, often, at yourself and each other.

Ashes to dust, dirt to trees

I crossed a parenting milestone this week when Jude, 4 years old and urged on by the deaths of five of our chicks and my grandpa last fall, asked me if everyone dies.

This is one of those moments when the world stops and you know your answer will have lasting effect. I am about to shape my child's first impression of death.

"Yes buddy," I say, "everyone dies."

His face crumples as he says in a tiny voice, "Oh no, even me?"

My heart shatters. I want to say, "No, no not you. Never you. By the time you get old they'll find a cure for death and you and me and Daddy and Aidan and your Granny and Grandpa and all of your family will be together always." I want to cure death so that it doesn't keep my son up at night. I want to avoid the upcoming trips in the car, when he is at his most open, during which he'll ask if his best friend Sammy will die. As endearing as it is I don't want to be present when he asks if Barack Obama will die and then, upon my answer, sobs out the words, "But he's my favorite president!"

This is when other parents are able to turn to Heaven and let their children know that if they are good, and go to church and say their prayers, then after they die a loving God will welcome them to Paradise and they'll all live happily ever after, amen. I want Heaven to be real now, just as I wanted it to be real at my grandpa's funeral when family members spoke of my grandparents being reunited in Heaven and dancing together for eternity. I want to be able to tell my child this story too. I want to believe.

But I don't. The best I can do is save my son from the devastation of growing up and thinking that I lied to him in this moment when he needed me most. I step away from the temptation of the story that I know will stop his crying and I carefully revisit the narrative that began a few days prior with the death of our first chick.

When we die, our bodies turn to dust. This dust then turns into dirt, and the dirt becomes a tree. Or grass. Our bodies help new things grow. He asks if my grandpa has turned into a fruit tree and I feel no qualms with skipping over the blasphemy of caskets and embalming and tell him yes, Grandpa Cyril is a fruit tree. Probably apple. For the moment this calms him, and he sleeps.

The conversation does not end here, and I am certain we'll be revisiting the topic for a while. In classic Jude fashion, he has declared the Circle of Life dumb. But I feel my shoulders release just a fraction when he tells me that even though he hates dying, he loves that he will become a tree. I love it to. I realize that talking through death with Jude, enlightening him on this grander scheme of decay and renewal, makes me more comfortable with the idea as well.

I promise Jude that as he gets used to the idea of dying it won't seem so scary and he won't think about it as much. I also promise that I'll do my best, years and years and years from now, to make sure that my tree is planted next to his tree and that our leaves will always be touching. It's a picture that we both need to hold on to.

Some people think that Atheists don't believe in anything. This is untrue. I believe in easing my son's pain while still telling him the truth. I believe in the Circle of Life, as dumb as it may be. I believe that death seems far less terrible when our bodies give way to new growth. I believe in cremation and in taking these fertile ashes somewhere special to scatter, or bury, and thereby create hallowed ground through regeneration. I believe that my children can grow up to view death as a natural progression of life, to cherish the time that we are together, and not to fear our eventual demise. I find comfort in these beliefs, and I hope that Jude will too.

Parenting. Whoa.

"They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you."

~Philip Larkin, from This Be the Verse

We all know that no one escapes childhood unscathed. Even those of use with "good" parents enter adulthood with our own particular brand of baggage courtesy of mom and dad. Reflecting on my own childhood is one thing, though. Knowing that I am now actually messing up my kids in my own special way is a totally new level of hell. It's enough to make me crazy.

My head is constantly full of conflicting advice and parental chatter. For example, when I can't help but kiss Jude 1000 times in a row, will this someday be construed by a therapist as a disregard for boundaries and an invasion of personal space? Because I prefer to carry Aidan in public instead of allowing him to walk, am I introducing a lifelong dependency on his overbearing mother? How long do we let the boys bathe together? One is a better sleeper since we used the "cry it out" method and the other still wants to be rocked to sleep...is that okay? If I let Jude pick out his shirt but force him to wear socks, am I sending mixed messages? Will my boys be vain if I keep telling them how cute they are? If I tell them when I'm proud does that teach them to value my praise above their own feelings? And by taking them to a political rally, will I be ensuring their future experimentation with Republicanism as a form of rebellion?

I need a drink. (Can I drink in front of them?)

It's a lot to deal with. Larkin ends his poem with the sage advice "Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself." Well shit. Since it's too late to exercise my right choose the only option I am left with is to celebrate the highlights of my parents' careers, forgive them their shortcomings, and hope that one day my boys will do the same.

I give you:

Stuff My Parents Taught Me That Didn't Fuck Me Up 

(...an ode of sorts)

1. We are your parents, first and foremost. You won't always like us but we won't let this stop us from protecting you.
2. If we mess up, we'll apologize. Even if it's years later. We're not perfect. 
3. We will have dinner as a family whenever possible without the crutch of TV, books or magazines, or any electronic device.
4. From school plays to soccer games, one or both of us will be at all of them.
5. You are responsible for cleaning your own room. Live like a pig or don't. 
6. Crying is an acceptable response to any situation, even for the boys.
7. Dark humor is totally appropriate.
8. If you ask us for help we'll give you all we've got.
9. No R-rated movies until you're old enough. No violent movies or video games in our house ever.
10. We don't care what your friends' parents are doing. Please refer to #1.
11. Until you come of age, you cannot drink in our home. We're not those parents.
12. If you drink at someone else's home call us for a ride and we won't freak until the next morning.
13. If you are going to curse, fine, but you better watch your fucking mouth at school and in front of your grandparents.
14. Graduation from high school is mandatory. After that you can figure out what's best for you.
15. You can ask us anything and we'll tell you the truth, even if it's painful and ugly.
16. We have no expectation of your adulthood other than wanting you to be happy and not to hurt others. 
17. Life will be easier if you marry someone who likes your family. 
18. If you get lost and refer to it as an adventure you'll either learn to take things less seriously or develop a lifelong distrust of the word adventure. It's up to you.
19. What is is. If you can't change it, then you can at least control how you react to it.
20. A good credit score will help you in life. You'll learn this one way or another.
21. You can always move home.
22. No matter what, even if you grow up to be a murderer, we love you. 

That last one is a direct quote. Thanks, mom and dad. 

My Husband's Coattails

My husband is a better person than I am. Anyone who knows us is making their "no duh" face right now. He is the guy who will drive you to the airport, help you move, and lend you $50 no questions asked. He's always a member of the Snow Squad in our community. He's had the same Meals on Wheels route for the last 5 years. More than once he's been known to pull over to help a motorist in distress and then come home late because he gave them a lift to work.

If it actually turns out that there's a Heaven, he's my ticket in. 

I am more stingy with my time. I get stressed with too many commitments and an endless obligation to show up. But, I am trying to find ways to be more generous of spirit and instead of unhappily smashing myself into the mold of my husband, I am going to let myself give in my own way. 

So, in honor of the holidays, I give you my top 5 ways to be a more generous person all year long.

1. Pick up someone else's tab.

A few weeks ago I was having a terrible day and decided to go through a Starbucks drive-thru. I was new to this location and, after giving my order and turning a corner, found myself trapped in a Disneyland-style line that was unexpectedly 12 cars deep. The baby woke up and cried. His brother couldn't make the videos on the phone load any faster…and cried. I cussed. And when I finally made my way to the window, the barista informed me that the car in front of me had paid for my drink. That $4.15 changed my day. I've done this twice for the car behind me since then, and the buzz I get as I drive away rivals that of my tall hazelnut soy latte. 

2. Tip 100%.

I picked this one up from my parents, who like to surprise random waitstaff as a nod to their children's early careers. Be it $5 or $500, and I've gotten both back in the day, nothing brings a lift faster than a 100% tip. It even makes their feet hurt less. 

3. Send a letter. A real one, involving ink and a stamp. 

Christmas mail is a joy because mixed in with the random paper bill and glut of neighborhood mailers are those wonderful red envelopes containing pictures of your friends' families and a few words of joy. Before kids, when I didn't know the true meaning of not having enough time, I used to swap regular letters with faraway friends. I sent birthday cards. Then letters became emails and emails became texts. Birthdays are now covered by Facebook posts. But nothing beats the intimacy of a few lines in ink from a pal that you can read and return to. A letter is a symbol of love.

4. Lend a hand instead of asking what you can do. 

We've all had the experience of a loved one going through a hardship and telling them, with all sincerity, to call if they need anything, anything at all. But the truth of the matter is that it's hard to ask for help. Instead of an offer of future assistance, I am going to challenge myself to actually do something, anything at all. Drop off a dinner that can be eaten or frozen. Send flowers. Take someone's kids for an afternoon. I myself find it much easier to thank someone for their thoughtfulness than to ask for their assistance, so I'll use this knowledge to be a better friend to those who need me.

5. Compliment at will.

If you are anything like me, you rush through your daily interactions with strangers. Which is sad, really, as these are the tiny human interactions that make up the bulk of a day. But contact with strangers makes a memorable impact. I'll always remember the odd woman on the street in Chicago who asked me, "Is your hair real? Can I touch it?" and the man in the bagel shop when I was 18 who held the door open for me and told me that when the light hit my hair I looked like an angel. The second memory is slightly nicer than the first, and I want to be like that guy. Instead of noting someone's cool shoes or adorable baby in my head, I am going to speak up and pass along the compliment. And not just to strangers, but to my familiars as well. As a person who is more than willing to jump on a soapbox to criticize, I think it's time I logged some points for the good side as well. 

And there we have it. It's not much. I'm not going to suddenly show up on moving day and help with your couch. Come on, I'm 5'4" and a bit of a wimp. But maybe I'll send you a card, bake you some cookies or let you know how pretty you look with that scarf. Hopefully I'll brighten your day and maybe even walk away with some residual joy for myself. 

Happy Holidays. 

Oh say can you see...and see...and see...and...

Remember being a kid, when fireworks used to mean something? Growing up, the Fourth of July was synonymous with all-day barbecues, staying up late, huddling together as a family on our quilted picnic blanket, and watching the once-a-year spectacle shoulder-to-shoulder with the entire neighborhood, oohing and awing in unison. Pair the show with a local band or a synchronized radio broadcast, and even the most jaded teenager would be stunned into a patriotic silence. Collectively we were part of something bigger, something great.

I fear that my own kids won't have this experience.

In my Littleton neighborhood, which I adore, it seems that almost every community event is capped off with fireworks. Last week's Main Street Block Party actually had two shows - one at 8:30 PM and a second at 10. Awesome, right?

Not so much.

What was once special has become commonplace. Instead of a reason for excitement, these too-frequent shows have become a nuisance that wakes my sleeping children and causes my dogs anxiety all summer long. I don't understand the reasoning behind it. Is it our supermarket-conditioned mentality, where seasons are rendered meaningless and anything we could possibly want is available to us at all times? Is it a collective fear of unassuming moments, where it's not enough if the capstone of a gathering is as simple as seeing our favorite barista freed from the coffee counter and out with her family? Do we always need to wow, to awe, to inundate with the most sparkle, the most noise, possible? Or maybe it started as a singular idea - let's add fireworks to the Western Welcome Week festival! - that grew in popularity until the number of firework displays offered in my city has spiraled out of control.

Whatever the case may be, in my community or yours, I would like to take a stand and reclaim fireworks for monumental occasions only. A presidential inauguration, the final game of the World Series, the celebration of our nation's independence. Since most cities host neither of the former events, let us reserve our fireworks for the latter. I extend a challenge to my city, and yours, to suspend all scheduled fireworks between this Fourth of July and next.

What would fill the void?

Let's start by talking financials. Assume that the average non-Fourth of July fireworks display costs $3,000. Instead of a local credit union sponsoring the fireworks at the next neighborhood chili cook-off, for example, they could come up with an "in lieue of" donation. In lieue of fireworks, ABC Credit Union has renovated Main Street USA Park and donated a new jungle gym. Or perhaps they would rather buy a parcel of land and gift it to the local Open Space holding. Or maybe they would want to award a scholarship to a local high school student, or pay to renovate a local business or historical building in need of a facelift.

What if this idea caught on?

Local businesses would compete over who could come up with the most creative and beneficial use of their previously allocated fireworks budgets. This electric spirit of giving would catch on within the community and people would start submitting their own ideas for consideration and participating in the discussion concerning this new distribution of funds. Invested citizens might even start looking for opportunities within the local community to donate time and money of their own...

What if, and this is the big one, our year of firework abstinence resulted in a renewed sense of community and culminated in a Fourth of July exhibition in the summer of 2013 that got the neighborhood excited again? After a year of smaller, more intimate, gatherings we'd be ready to come together en masse and make some noise.

Can't you see it?

We gather up our families, pack the blue Igloo coolers that look just like the ones our parents had, stake an early claim on some prime sky-viewing real estate at the park on the hill, and then while away the afternoon throwing a frisbee, eating hotdogs, and psyching ourselves up for an event that we have been denied for a whopping 364 days. Even the adults are little-kid giddy with anticipation. It takes forever for the sun to set, but as it finally gets dark and the first whistling rocket is shot into the air, we look to our left and right and see that the America we are celebrating tonight is the America we can find right here in this park. As the first color-filled explosions light up the sky, casting their purple and green glow onto the upturned faces of our children, we swell with pride and gratitude for the life we are able to claim as our own.

I want this. I want this moment that is unique enough to make a memory. What do you say, Littleton? Are you with me?

Right here, right now.

I am a horrible future-dweller. It causes me a lot of anxiety. I often find myself caught up in what could happen and my brain goes off in a terrible spiral of doom. This is especially true when I wake up in the middle of the night and my logic brain is still sleeping. I find myself at my most vulnerable at 2 am, when the likelihood of dropping one of my children into the Grand Canyon while on vacation, or being trapped in my car after driving into a river, or Gabe being attacked by a mountain lion while out on a suburban trail run are not only plausible but actually probable.

Welcome to Crazy Town, population of 1.

Crazy Town held a parade last week in anticipation of Gabe's latest checkup with his cardiologist. It has been eight months since his mitral valve repair, and every echocardiogram leading up to this one has resulted in bad news ranging from disappointing to devastating. Needless to say, I spent a grim Tuesday morning penning my husband's eulogy in my head, figuring out how to bravely raise two boys on my own, and working my body into a state of nauseous panic.

Fun fact - your body does not know the difference between imagined tragedy and actual tragedy. So, if you have a particularly vivid imagination, you can wreak havoc on your body by causing physical reactions to things that have never happened. The mayor of Crazy Town has mad skills in this arena.

And yet...

Despite all of my nutso mental preparations, the sky did not actually fall. I am happy to report that Gabe's fabulous, wonderful, strong-in-spite-of-it-all heart is pumping away like a champ. This week was a win. Turns out I made myself sick over nothing.

I'll cut me a little slack due to the gravity of this particular situation, but even if we had gotten bad news worrying would have accomplished nothing. It doesn't help, it doesn't stop the bad, and it in no way prepares us for dealing with actual life turbulence. It is an absolute waste. And the bitch of it all is that I can get equally caught up in something as trivial as a fake argument that will never happen based on a slight that was never actually received. I am quite adept at working myself into a frenzy over money troubles that have yet to manifest themselves. I have also been known to freak my freak, as my mom so wonderfully phrases it, about which kindergarten to send Jude to even though that actual decision is almost two years away.

I get so lost in what might/could/will happen that I ruin the here and now. It's a sickness. I need to fix this for myself, but I also feel compelled to address this behavior before I pass it on to my children.

Let's use now as an example.

It is 8:41 pm on a Sunday and I am stressing over the Q2 taxes that are due at the end of the month, the fact that I may or may not have a freelance gig after next week, and we need to call plumbers to bid on what I fear will be an expensive upgrade to our house's water main by order of Denver Water. All of these events will play themselves out within the next few weeks, but I have no idea what will actually happen. And seriously, what could I possibly do about them right now at 8:44 pm on a Sunday? Absolutely nothing.

The best trick in my bag, and the one I don't seem to utilize enough, is to root myself firmly in the present moment.

And right now, everything is okay.

Right now, at 8:46 on a Sunday, this is what I know:
Gabe is giving Jude a bath.
Aidan is practicing his new "ka-ka-ka" sounds in my lap.
Belle, our Boston Terrier, is snoring beneath a pile of blankets at the end of the couch.
Our lab Rocky is passed out at my feet.
My house is filled with the people I love most.
We are all healthy.
We are all safe.
I don't know what will happen in an hour, or a day, or next week, but it is now 8:48 on a Sunday and right now, right here, I am just fine.

***

It is 8:49 on an average Sunday. No one is home in Crazy Town. The sole occupant is currently vacationing in the present moment. Someday she hopes to move there.

The Same River Twice

I've swiped the title of today's blog from Alice Walker, whom I love, and her book "The Same River Twice: Honoring the Difficult." It's a moving long-form essay on a time in her life when the most wonderful was paired with the most devastating. In the ultimate tribute to grace, she looks back on that tangled period of time with gratitude.

There is an inherent connection, I think, between the awful and awe-inspiring moments in life. Though it's more easily said than done, I'd like to be more like Alice and learn to embrace the difficult. Not just the overtly difficult, but the small disappointments that can build up and drown us if we aren't careful. In my best moments, when I am able to let go of what I thought life would be and simply see it for what it is, I start to glimpse how lucky I really am.

If I can apply some perspective now, when I know what was waiting outside the window after life slammed that metaphorical door, maybe I will be able to more readily wade through difficult waters in the future.

Here goes.

A Letter to My Life

Written with humility, happiness, and hope for the future

Thank you failed acting career. You remain my biggest disappointment. But I learned that there is no shame in throwing in the towel. Sometimes, even though you try your best, things just don't work out. I met Gabe doing a play though, and with the gift of Gabe came the treasure of my boys. There is no sitcom, no Broadway play, no Oscar-worthy movie role that I would choose over my little family. And even though I did not end this journey a star, I cannot discount the small victories along the way. Seeing my name on a cast list, that moment when a character clicks, the feeling of holding an audience captive - these things still happened. Life is long...who knows if or when this path and I will meet up again.

Thank you failed relationships. Thank you Stupid Pete for teaching me how to love someone. Thank you Kirby the Destroyer for showing me that 2 is better than 1, even though you weren't the man I thought you were. If it weren't for the two of you, I wouldn't fully appreciate what I have with Gabe.

Thank you to the four houses that I loved and then lost over the course of 3 months due to bad home inspections. Turns out that the fifth time is a charm! And now that we've left the congestion and noise of the Denver neighborhoods that we were aiming for, I wouldn't trade my big backyard, access to open space, and proximity to my parents for anything. Not even a good English-style pub...

Thank you heart surgery. Nothing puts life and love in perspective more than the threat of loss. Gabe's surgery was 7 months ago, and today it's as if it didn't happen. Except that maybe we appreciate being together a little bit more. And we try not to take the little annoyances too seriously or let the easy moments pass by unnoticed.

Thank you XY chromosomes. I had always wanted a daughter because I am so close with my mom, but this has turned out to be a delightful curveball. I was so sure that both boys were girls! Being wrong has never been more wonderful.

Thank you miscarriage. It breaks my heart to write that, but without you I never would have been honored by the birth of Aidan. And he is worth a million heartbreaks.

Finally, thank you former job for overwhelming me with work and then cutting my health insurance benefits when I was 5 months pregnant. I learned that just because I can function at a high stress level doesn't mean that I have to, and that it sometimes takes an extra push to overcome my fear of change and walk away.

Along those lines, thank you non-profit "dream job" that didn't even call me in for a first interview. I am so happy to be freelancing, spending more time with my kids, and finally being able to work on my own projects at my own pace. I never would have had the guts to land here voluntarily.

And that's maybe the biggest lesson of all.

I don't always know what is best for me. Just because I want something so much doesn't guarantee a success, and success doesn't guarantee that that path will be the optimum one for me. Unexpected pitfalls force change. I wouldn't have chosen any of the aforementioned struggles before they happened, but in hindsight I would not change a thing.

Thank you life. You seem to be working out quite well.