My love is like a Paw Patrol Blanket

 

Mother’s Day is Sunday. 

For being a ridiculous, Hallmark holiday, it certainly pulls on the heartstrings of the world, yes? Joyous for those with fantastic moms; heartbreaking for those who have lost parents (or children); devastating for those who struggle to become mothers and can’t. It’s like this massive day created to tug at the edges of a hole that already exists in your heart. Like, I know it’s there…but you don’t have to yank on it once a year, do you? 

I feel like this is a day that can be especially hard for those whose mothers have passed. I know about that firsthand. And of course, I take a moment and remember my mom on Mother’s Day. It would be silly to say that I don’t. It’s always been a day that’s tinged with just the littlest bit of sadness, and I think always will be, regardless of how wonderful my kids are, or how much I celebrate my other mom friends

Truthfully though, I’ve never taken a lot of stock in calendar-created “special days.” Because if you really think back to the super meaningful times of your life, I’m guessing that a good number of them didn’t necessarily revolve around a holiday. And if I’m honest, I don’t remember a single Mother’s Day with my mom. Not a one. I feel like the really profound moments with Mom happened on a random Tuesday, when I was otherwise engaged in the regular ol’ mundane tasks of life. 

Driving to school today with my daughter was one of those moments. And it was stealth. And crushing. 

“Mommy, I want to tell you a secret.” 

“Ok. Lay it on me.” 

“I love you.” 

“Aw, well that’s nice. I love you, too.” 

(Everything is still cool. Humming to radio. Avoiding traffic.) 

“But I want to love you always.” 

“Well, that’s very sweet, dear. You can love me for as long as you want. And I will love you forever as well.” 

(Aww. How sweet. What a cute daughter she’s decided to be this morning. We need ice cream or something.) 

“Mommy. Please don’t die.” 

(SCREEEECHING HALT in brain. What did she just say? Oh my God. Is she worried about me dying? Where is this coming from? Wait, did I just drive past her school? Dammit. Around the block.) 

Stumbling for words…“Honey…I mean. That’s not something to worry about. Not for a long time. And I will love you forever and ever, no matter what.” 

“You mean you won’t ever leave me? You won’t die?” 

(And now, I have tears streaming down my face. How do I explain life and death and love in the five minutes I have, in the car, around the block, so that I can make her feel ok, and still get her into the school building in one piece? Focus. Think. Stop crying.) 

Deep breath. 

“El. You know your Paw Patrol blanket?” 

“Yeah, I sleep with it. It’s my favorite.” 

“Right. And when you go to bed at night, you wrap yourself up in it, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“You wrap yourself up in it because it keeps you safe, and warm, and you feel cozy, and it lets you sleep with such sweet dreams, right?” 

Smiling…to herself, “Yes.” 

“And right now, you don’t have that blanket with you, but you remember that feeling, right? You know what it feels like to be safe and warm and cozy, in your bed at night?” 

“Yup. I love my Paw Patrol blanket.” 

(Deep breath as I try to explain the existential concepts of life and death and love to a four-and-a-half-year-old.) 

“Well, Mommy’s love is kinda like your blanket. It will ALWAYS make you feel safe, and warm, and cozy and cared for EVEN if I’m not with you all the time. Like when you’re a school, you remember that I love you, just like you remember how warm your blanket is, right?” 

She giggles… “Yes.” 

“So you know, that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, or if I’m with you or not… JUST like your warm blanket, you can stop, and remember, and you can always *FEEL* my love, wrapped around you, keeping you safe and warm and happy. And that’s there forever.  You can remember that anytime. No matter what.”

“Oh, ok.” She nods quietly, smiles, and looks out the window, lost in thought. 

And then we pulled up in the drop off line, and the moment was gone. And she jumped out of the car, waved, and said goodbye, like a 4-year-old, without a care in the world; like we hadn’t just had the deepest and most profound conversation of her life thus far. 

“Remember that I love you,”  I yelled after her.

“I love you too, mommy.” 

And off we went. On a random Friday. 

I’m looking forward to Mother’s Day this year, as we’re hosting family in our new home. I’m positive that it will be lovely day. But odds are, my kids aren’t going to remember it. But maybe, just maybe, 50 years from now, on Mother’s Day, Ellie will smile to herself and remember that my love is like a Paw Patrol blanket, and will smile to herself, and hug her children close.

The Good Stuff

 

My father and mother got married later in life. As such, all of my fathers’ relatives had passed well before I was born. I did not know my father’s parents, or really much of anything about my father’s side of the family. As a child, I always wondered what they were like; who they were; what they did. What did their days look like? What kind of relationship would we have had? (Just some of the millions of questions I should have asked my parents before they passed. I so wish I would have taken the time to do this. I will share these things with my own children. I will write them down. I simply must.) 

One of the things I inherited when my father passed away was a large box of my grandmother’s china. It was the “good stuff” that had been boxed up for most of my life. I sort of remember seeing it in the china cabinet, but I don’t remember using it growing up. We might have, but I have no real memories of it. It was just grandma’s china that lived in the cabinet. 

When J and I bought our new home, one of the key components that drew me to this one was its large dining room with built-in china cabinets throughout. See, J and I? We like a good dinner party. Or drinks. Or just having friends over. Of *hosting* things. We both love to cook, love to entertain, and consider that the greatest gift we can give others is bringing them in—feeding them, hosting them, offering hospitality and sanctuary and warmth. Our home, in whatever shape and size it has been, has always been YOUR home, too. 

In every home we’ve had together as a couple (and dear lord, that’s been three different houses in the five years we’ve been married…) our dining room has been central to our home...and *wee.* Enough for a handful of folks, but not nearly enough to really host a party like I would like. 

(I’ll never forget the Thanksgiving that J was deployed and I decided to throw a friends and family Thanksgiving at my house, and because it was just me and Ellie ALL my friends decided to show up. I tried to squeeze like ten or twelve people onto a table made for 6 and nearly had a nervous breakdown when I couldn’t get place-settings down in {what was to me…} a reasonable fashion.) 

When J and I started dating, one of the things that we talked about as a reason for our getting along so well, was that we put equal value into our relationships with our friends. As far as we were concerned, friends were considered family. And for family, we would do anything. Host a dinner; take them in; let them come over in the middle of the night. And we have never had to ask or explain to one another this implicit importance. “Hey, set another place for dinner.” “Hey, I have a friend who needs a place to crash for a month.” The answer has always just been, “well, yes, of course.” 

When J and I got married, we didn’t register for a china pattern. Partially this was because we didn’t have space for it, and knew we’d just have to pack it up and take it from house to house until we “settled down.” And partially it was because I knew I had my grandmother’s china waiting for me. 

This week, as we finished unboxing the main part of our new home, I stumbled upon the box of grandma’s china. And since I now had a china cabinet, I decided that it was time for it to come out of storage for the first time in, literally decades. The first thing that struck me was its simplicity and its beauty. Myself not being particularly fancy, this simple design, very delicate, but classy was exactly what I would have picked out for myself had I had all the china in the world to select from myself. A small grayish blue leaf in the middle, with a silver edging. (I’m not really the pink/ floral/ gold filigree type.) 

Ah yes, this is actually stuff I would use. 

And then I began to unwrap each piece. Piece after piece after piece. Good lord, how much of this stuff was there? 

All told, it was a 14-piece place setting. Plates, salad bowls, soup bowls, cups, saucers, dessert plates, two serving plates, two serving bowls, sugar and cream and gravy boats. Holy cow—a full set of late 1800’s, delicate Japanese china…in a set of 14. Who gets china of this value, at that cost, during that time period in a set of FOURTEEN? Who could possibly need a place-setting for 14? 

We do. 

And they did. 

Exactly right. 

Suddenly, I looked at the dishes differently. I started wondering how much like my relatives I maybe was. Did they set a table for 14 on the regular? Did they host dinner parties? Have friends to the table? Parties into the night with wine and good food and conversation? All of my assumptions about my father’s family were based on the little that I knew about them: They were pre-Depression era, turn of the Century, Midwestern, blue-collar workers and farmers, who were extraordinarily pious and faithful, and to be honest (in my head) a little “colder” than I am. 

But maybe not. 

Maybe they enjoyed a good dinner party. 

As I unwrapped the delicate dishes, one at a time, I started to love the imperfections that come from use—the gravy boat, chipped; a plate broken; a soup bowl quite simply missing. They used these dishes. They loved these dishes. My grandmother’s hands had washed these cups once; had served Thanksgiving dinners on these plates; had no doubt filled the bowls with mashed potatoes. These are things that I will do, too.  

What a lovely connection we now had. 

This weekend, for Mother’s Day, I’m excited to say that J and I are hosting a brunch at our home. It is the first party for our family that will take place in our new dining room—a room that can hold the people we will host. 

And I’ll have the china do so. 

I anticipate that we’ll have our own chips and scrapes to add to the collection. And hopefully my children will have fond memories of these meals, and will carry forward our family’s love of others, good food and hospitality. 

And the china. They'll have the dishes. And all the other good stuff, too.

In the weeds

 

If your house is anything like my house, getting out the door in the morning is akin to a military exercise. It takes precision. And accuracy. And split second-timing in order to get my two VERY morning-moody children dressed, fed, and out the door even close to on time without some significant meltdowns. It’s loud. And it’s *busy*. 

Before Els was in a school where it didn’t matter what time we showed up, we had some wiggle room. No one CARED if we were 10 minutes late. So if the morning was going to hell fast, I could take a step away, have a long, sensuous sip of my coffee, remind myself that I had children by choice, take a breath, and come back and reengage in the madness with a clearer head. 

But now, it’s not just mom’s schedule. It’s SCHOOL’s schedule. A new added layer of external pressure to the already angsty morning routine. Getting myself out the door each day is one thing. Getting out the door with two very willful, playful, “NO COATS!” children is a whole other can of worms. 

 (When I met my new neighbors this week, I told them that I just assumed that everyone in the neighborhood already knew the names of my children, as I bellowed them at top- volume each morning trying to get them into the car. She looked a little uncomfortable and was like “oh, no no. Not at all…” Definitely lying to me…)

But today! Ha! Today we did it. We executed our morning routine to perfection, and we were all in the car and pointed towards school ON TIME (ok…so coats were in our bags and not our bodies. I couldn’t fight that battle this morning…) 

Here we go. On the familiar, 8 (to 20 minute) drive to school. We were hurrying. It was a madhouse in the car. Contained chaos, but chaos nonetheless. And of course, today, the traffic. Sigh. Here we sit. Not moving. I’m growing impatient. Sitting. Waiting. Going nowhere. Going to be late, despite our best efforts. Sigh, again. 

That’s when I noticed, up the road about half a mile, a man standing in the middle of a group of trees, about ankle deep in a thick ivy creeping across the ground around him. Even though this was a park, this is not a place you would expect to see someone standing. There’s fresh-cut grass and park benches just a few steps away. Why was he standing in the trees and the weeds? 

His back was to me. But he wasn’t moving. Standing completely still, in the middle of the woods. What the hell? 

Ah, of course. He must have found a spot where his phone wasn’t dead. He was reading something on his phone. Yes yes. It’s the only reason why a random man could be standing in the middle of the weeds, not moving, while a traffic jam was parked literally next to him. Of course. Must be it. 

By the time I had slowly inched up to where I could see his face, I had written this man’s whole life story in my imagination several different ways. 

He’d been in one of the cars, frustrated he wasn’t moving, and had gotten out and found signal for calling into the office to them he’d be late. 

Or… 

He was the reason we weren’t moving—he’d been in a fender bender and had stepped out of his car to call his insurance company.  

I spent probably 10 minutes trying to figure this out. When I pulled even with him, I looked over, desperate to figure out what this strange man was doing, standing so quietly in the woods. 

He was meditating. 

His eyes were closed. His palms out in front of him, turned up towards the sun. He was breathing deeply. He had found the perfect spot, right there within the shade of the trees, to take solace. To find peace. Even with a traffic jam mere feet from him. He was unaffected by the din. 

I immediately started trying to come up with excuses for this possible state. He was old. He was lost. He’d just had some bad news and needed to walk outside and think for a minute. Dementia. Obviously. 

I caught myself in the excuse cycle that people always make…that *I* always make for silence. There had to be a REASON why he was there, right? He couldn’t just be there, resting? 

And then I wondered why meditating hadn’t occurred to me. The thought of someone intentionally taking a break—of slowing down. Of breathing. Of taking in nature, wherever that might be. Of being by yourself. Of giving thanks. Of connecting. 

Of just being still. 

None of those things had ever even crossed my mind in my fictionalized story of this man’s life. 

Looking at him made me smile and reflect deeply. 

With our move and all of the massive life changes we are going through as a family right now, I have been unplugged more than normal. I haven’t wanted to talk to people on the phone or chat. Haven’t felt like reaching out or posting on social media. I’ve neglected a lot of relationships outside of the four walls of my home. And have felt the constant need to apologize for that. 

And it’s not like I’m not thinking about people. I just haven’t had the energy to talk. I’ve been finding a million busy work tasks to fill the day—many of them legitimate, but most just to keep moving. I’ve been planning and analyzing and over-analyzing again pretty much everything that’s popped into my head. And I’ve definitely put together my list of excuses if anyone were to ask why I haven’t called. 

But if I’m being honest, the truth is, I just don’t want to right now. I don’t have the energy because my head is busy. I’ve been silent, but my mind has been anything but quiet. I was able to draw that distinction this morning. 

As I drove past my mystery man in the park this morning, I found myself saying out loud “Good for you, sir.” 

I feel like I’ve been missing the point of the self-imposed quiet. I need to quiet my mind, not just my voice. And once I concentrate on the bigger picture of the quiet mind, I feel like everything else is going to come along just fine. 

I’m grateful for this man in the weeds this morning… And for showing me that maybe I am the one in the weeds way more than he is.

Get busy livin'...

 

When I was 24, I lost my mom to pancreatic cancer. I was fortunate not to lose her when I was a baby or a young child or a teenager, but I did lose her right about the time she and I were pushing through the teen-aged angst and into adulthood…when we could be friends. She saw me age, but never really saw me grow up. I think as grown-ups, we just might have been good friends. It was fast, her passing, in a time when the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer was an automatic and almost immediate death sentence.

I miss her. I miss all the things I should have asked her and just had no idea I would want to hear her answer to. I find that to be especially true as I raise my kids. What I wouldn’t give to ask her one more question. Or two. Or a thousand.

When I was 32, I lost my mentor to pancreatic cancer. He fought valiantly, and staved off the inevitable with so much strength and determination for longer than anyone thought a man of his age could. He was the man who changed the course of my academic life; my professional life; and my personal life. It was working for him and with him that afforded me most of my best friends. And my career path. And my husband.

This time last year, I lost my cousin to pancreatic cancer. We weren’t close—he was more than 10 years my senior, and I hadn’t seen him since my mother’s funeral. But it hit close to home for me anyway. Because he was family. And it was not just cancer. It was *this* cancer. And it my mom’s twin sister’s son. He was only 51. And much like my mother, it was fast and merciless.

About two weeks ago, I lost another cousin to pancreatic cancer. This one was a friend. Someone who was in my house on a regular basis; who laughed with my family; held my son after his birth. A man who fought stage four cancer for almost four years. He was brave. And kind. His wife has become one of my closest friends here in the mountains where we live. I watched her have to say goodbye to her soulmate. They had two children under 10. He was only 40.

It could have been me.

This one cut me deep and affected me on a very personal level. (And before we get to that, can we just all hold hands and proclaim together a mutual hatred of pancreatic cancer? Can we just all agree to hate this ugly disgusting ridiculous disease that has taken too many of the people I love?)

Now everyone knows I’m a sympathetic crier. I don’t cry a lot on my own, but man, if I see someone else cry, I lose it. Especially if I *believe it* (fake criers and criers for attention only…I’m on to you, and I’ve got no time for it.) Sitting at the funeral watching my dear friend be strong and stoic for her family while her in-laws, and cousins, and sisters and children cried. It was more than I could handle. I lost it. I was a mess. Like, a next-level mess. It was embarrassing.

And part of it was for sure because I missed my friend. And part of it was because it was this damned cancer again. And of course, part of my meltdown was watching my friends hurt so deeply. But another part was much more selfish. All I could think about was what I would do if it was J. What on God’s Earth would I do without him? Would I be able to be strong like my friend? And what in the world would the kids do? It would be hard enough to raise the kids alone. But harder still having them go through life not being able to share the big stuff with their dad. Graduations. Birthdays. Marriages.

And then suddenly, it was me. Oh my God. What if it was me that didn’t make it? What if J had to navigate life with two kids and no mom? Who would keep Liam out of fights? Who would go dress shopping for prom with Ellie? And answer the hard questions? (Or maybe just the easy ones.) It’s not that J couldn’t do. I just would never ever want him to have to.

One of the things about being a parent that I never thought about before having kids was the multiple levels of worry and fear that you would experience. I expected to worry about eating and sleeping and pooping; learning to walk and read, and make good choices in friends and life. What I didn’t realize was that from the moment I birthed my first child, my only real fear in life has been the thought that I might not be able to be there for them when they need me.

These were the horrible thoughts running through my head as the tears rolled down my face in the funeral. It was just about that time that the Priest asked the question to the congregation “what will the passing of this friend mean to you? What can you take away from this ridiculous loss? What does his life, and untimely death mean in your life?”

These were questions that straight smacked me across the face.

I have not recovered well from my last pregnancy. My body has been very slow to heal. And I haven’t been able to take off the pregnancy weight. Not really any of it. And I gained 70 pounds with this kid. And I wasn’t small to begin with.

I am not healthy. I do not feel good: Not about my health. Not about my appearance. Not about anything going on my with physical life right now.

Sitting in the funeral, I became furious with myself. There are a thousand things that are out of my control regarding my ability to be here for my family. Cancer. Car accidents. And a thousand other things that are beyond my imagination right now.

But you know what’s not out of my control? What I eat. When I sleep. How I exercise. These are the things I have control over. And that I have been dramatically, overwhelmingly neglecting in the name of “giving myself time to heal” or “not being so hard on myself.”

It’s bullshit. And they are excuses.

I’m 40 (and not ashamed to say that.) And it’s not going to get easier. So I think it had better start now.

Because you know what?

There is no food that tastes as good as seeing Ellie graduate college.

There is no 30-minutes worth of sitting-on-my-ass-activity-instead-of-exercise that is worth more than dancing with Liam at his wedding.

There is no fast food or “convenience” that is better than celebrating my 50th wedding anniversary with J.

So that’s what my cousin’s loss meant to me. And my other cousin’s loss. And my mentor. And my mother. It’s time to get busy. A wake up call. A dose of reality.

And now I have to start the hard work. The hard work of changing my priorities; of changing my body; of changing my lifestyle. Of thinking in the long term. Of getting myself right with, well, myself. There are too many things in this life that I can’t overcome, but this ain’t one of them.

Being unhealthy is a choice. A choice I’m no longer willing to make.

Caucus

 

I came from a family who did not participate in the political process. I was pretty clueless about how it all worked, until I got into a really rad political science course in college. And then, I was hooked. I squeaked out of college only one course shy of a Poly Sci minor (who does THAT, by the way? Pick up the minor, friends. Pick up the minor.) 

I was a radical! (As all angsty college-aged, liberal-arts woman are wont to call themselves.) To be honest, I wasn’t all that radical. I wore shoes and a bra. I shaved. I didn’t own too many clothes made of hemp (ok, I had some. And I still love my Birkenstocks… Whatever. Don’t judge me.) Mostly, I was radical because everyone I was close to up to that point in my life was SUPER conservative. And I just didn’t get all that conservative stuff. (In my old age, I’m really only super left of center on social issues. I’m basically a critical centrist with left-leaning tendencies and a penchant for arguing whatever is the other side of YOUR particular political argument. Alas, they don’t let you affiliate that way as far as I can tell.) 

And so my misspent youth as a radical-leftie-almost-poly-sci-major gave in to pragmatism of age and experience. Don’t get me wrong. I still care a lot. I still inform myself on the issues…argue with smart people on the other side of the aisle to clarify my viewpoint. I still vote. But marching on places and attending rallies and hard-stumping for pundits isn’t really my scene anymore. I have my views. I feel informed about them. I vote my conscience. But I don’t typically announce to the planet what’s on my mind politically anymore. 

And there are some legit factors that have played into my comparative apathy regarding politics in recent years. First, it’s hard to get super involved in local politics when you move around as much as me, and you’re never really a local. Second, when a pretty solid number of people with whom I am close to these days believe the other end of the spectrum from me…well, I don’t have it in me for ill-advised, in-fighting amongst the fam, you know? Letting the bygones be bygones and all that business. 

Add THOSE things together with the fact that for all of my life, regardless of where I have ended up living, I have lived in cities who VERY closely mirror my political views... When you’re routinely winning elections by a 30% margin, the fire-in-the-belly to get out and stump isn’t really there. Everyone gets where you’re coming from—they just got off that train, too. 

But participating is still important. And it still matters. And I know that and believe that to be true. Especially in a time where it feels like basic American principles have gone sideways, the world is in flux, and everyone seems mere moments away from pure panic. A friend of mine this week who was asking about “words to describe America right now” was coming up with things like “bifurcated” “disappointed” “shocked” and “reckless.” Not good, friends. Not good. 

After all these years, J and I have finally moved to a battleground state. And a state that typically votes the other direction than I do. A state whose politics are weird and wonderful and all a little confusing to me, surrounded by many people who, for the first time in my life, don’t necessarily share my viewpoint on the issues of the day. And a state with a caucus no less. Not a regular ol’ primary, but a CAUCUS. So clearly, this piqued my interest in becoming involved again in the local political scene. 

(By the way, definitely had to both 1) look up what a caucus was and 2) crowd-source what that definition actually meant and why it might be important that I attend. Knowledge is power, friends.) 

So, partially out of curiosity and mostly out of guilt, I decided that I would attend my local caucus this week. I definitely assumed it would be me and the five other registered voters in my city affiliated with my party. 

I could not have been more surprised. 

The building was packed; the line, out the door, snaking around the massive high school’s hallways and spilling out into the parking lot. Registration was only supposed to last for 30 minutes, but it took me easily an hour to sign in, and find the room which matched my precinct. 

So, as by definition, a caucus is a gathering of people who share a political party or more generally, share political ideals. To caucus then is to gather these people together and to communicate those concerns and ideals with one another. In the practical sense, a caucus in also designed to allow these individuals to assign delegates to members of the party. 

There were about 40 of us neighbors gathered in our precinct room. As we went around the room and informally introduced one another as we waited to officially begin, it become evident that no one there had ever caucused before—all of us were there for the first time, because for the first time, this process seemed *really* important. 

Now, it may come as no surprise to you (my husband actually guffawed in feigned astonishment at this when I told him) but a few minutes into the proceedings I was elected caucus chair. (Yup, that happened.) So now, not only was I attending my first caucus, I was leading it. 

Beyond rule readings and formalities of procedure, the first order of business in a caucus is to hold a non-binding straw poll—get a feeling for the temperature of the room, see if there are any undecided in attendance and sally forth from there. The straw poll in this particular room revealed everyone came in with their mind pretty much set. There were no undecided amongst us. 

And yet. 

Every person there came prepared to speak on behalf of their candidate. Every person wanted to talk about issues—the things which were truly important to them. And so we talked. Civil discourse. Well-articulated arguments. Genuine concerns amongst neighbors. Pros and cons of each candidate—things we admired and appreciated about our elected officials. There was no name calling. There was no lowest-common-denominator behaviors. Just well-meaning citizens caring about what happens next in the world who respectfully took turns to voice these views. 

It was the most heartening thing I have witnessed in this entire election cycle. 

Now, I know that the types of people who attend a caucus have self-selected themselves as likely to be these kinds of people. Ok, maybe not the norm. But when all you hear about in the news these days is the other end of that spectrum, this was a refreshing two hours. Come to find out, not everybody sucks. 

In the end, we voted, and everyone ended up voting like they thought they would when they came in. But I had great faith in the convictions of these people. They *believed* what they voted. They had carefully thought out what would be best in their mind for themselves and for others. This wasn’t hype or bluster. This was serious business and we conducted it as such. 

As we left the evening, everyone stopped and thanked me, genuinely, for running the session. The people there appreciated and respected the process. They had been heard. They had voiced their minds, and could now with a clear conscience (like confession) go forth and do good work. 

Ultimately, our state’s election results mirrored exactly what our room’s vote did. As I sat at home later that evening watching the results roll in, I felt such a sense of community and participation. I had faith that what we had done had had an effect on the larger picture. That we had affected change. What a cool thing to be a part of. And far more encouraging than the tripe we’re seeing on the tv these days. 

One of my favorite lines from The West Wing has always been this: Decisions are made by those who show up. I’m encouraged by those who showed up at my polling place this week. I’m really glad that I decided to show up myself. And if we’re going to change the course of history this election cycle, you need to show up too. It’s only those who do who get to make a difference. 

And that difference can be real.

Secret Service

 

When I met J, he was well into his time in the military, but still, overall pretty young in his service. I’m not really sure why I never thought to ask what he *did* in the Army, but it just never really seemed to come up. We met in a graduate program of leadership, so I guess my assumption was that he, you know, lead people. In the Army. While he did his job…of being in the Army.

For all intents and purposes, I came from a Quaker family (we belonged to a non-denominational church whose practices mirror very very closely those of the Quakers.) And because of this pacifist background, all things military were exceedingly foreign to me (to be honest, they still sort of are.) I did not have friends or family who served, and so I was pretty clueless when J and I started dating what it was all about. He was this Army guy. He did Army stuff. And he was an officer, so…he led other Army guys to do Army stuff? Ok. Sounds good.

And then of course, he took on several roles in which even if I did ask what he did all day, he couldn’t really tell me. And honestly, I have no idea, given my aforementioned cluelessness re: all things military if I’d even understand the complexities, subtleties and intricacies of what he was doing if he had the ability to share every last detail. We learned early on in our marriage to speak in generalities and metaphors.

And so I just never really asked.

And I’ve kinda liked that. Our own version of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. He’s an Army guy. And a Leader. He does secret squirrel stuff and leads other people to do secret squirrel stuff. That’s all I know. That’s all I need to know. He gets up each day, he does his job, and that’s that. And truthfully, I’ve never really thought much past that.

I know some people don’t believe that I don’t know or don’t ask. But I’ve never wanted to put him in a position where he had to tell me that he couldn’t tell me something. I assume if he could, he would. And in the immortal words of Forrest Gump, that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

When you combine this with the fact that we’ve not been married for all that long…and that we’ve not been together at a lot of traditional Army posts (he’s been deployed for a good amount of the time we’ve been together and at some random, one-off assignments), what he does all day has really just never come up. And I’m fine with that.

But here we are now, at a pretty old-school post, and with him having a pretty ordinary desk job with a pretty stationary team. And for the first time in his military career, I’ve actually gotten to see him do the tiniest bit of his work. See him with his team. Meet “his people.” And get a sense of how he fits into the big picture of his organization.

And honestly, it’s kind of amazing.

He is a team leader. But you know what? He’s really good at it. I’ve met his “people.” And they like him a lot. Have great respect for him. Enjoy working for him and with him. You know how I know? They’ve told me. And I can see it when they interact with one another.

And he has a job to do. And he’s really good at it. His bosses value him and respect his work. They respect his mind and his initiative. You know how I know? They’ve told me. And I can see it when they interact with one another.

And he likes his job. He gets frustrated (just like with any person and any job) but it energizes him. He *thinks* about it (And don’t get this confused with just having his work on his mind. I mean that he makes time to take consideration for what he’s doing. Figuring out a faster, better, smarter way to do things. He looks at it critically and offers feedback and scholarly writings in his field. He wants to train others to think like this and to do their jobs better. And you know how I know he’s thinking about all this? I can see it in his eyes and hear the passion in his voice when he tells me that he's "had a good day."

I can’t believe we’ve been together as long as we have and this is the first time I’ve gotten to see what his days are about. Not what he does. But what it does to him. Not what he produces, but the effect it has on others. Not his job, but rather his work. (Yes, there is a difference.)

We were at an event last week at which I had the ability to meet and chat with several of his bosses for one of the first times. “I know he can’t really share all the things he does with you, but you should know, last week, your husband was kind of a rockstar.” I just smiled and said thank you. I think I saw J blush. (P.S. he will hate every word of this blog. We’ll see how long it stays posted…)

It’s been fun to see this other side of my husband. Before now, I’d seen him as a partner, a father, a son, a friend, and a scholar. And he’s pretty great at all those things. But his work…this was new. And unsurprisingly, he’s pretty great at this too.

What he does all day, remains a mystery to me. And that’s ok. Because the impact that his secret service has on those around him is no longer mysterious. It’s really quite wonderful to see. And I couldn’t be prouder of the man he is and the good he’s doing for us, for him, for his team, and for his country.

Powerball

 

Much like everyone else on the planet, J and I threw our hats (and a couple of bucks) into the Powerball ring this week. 

Having no actual belief that we’d win, it still bought us a couple of good solid hours of dreaming and conversations together (which is always well worth a couple of bucks to me.) 

We’re very practical people. 

It started with the hiring of lawyers and accountants and trying our best to stay anonymous. And then we moved on to the not-at-all-glamorous checklist—the same list that I’m assuming most everyone has: pay the bills; buy some reliable vehicles; set up the college and savings plans for the kids; give some to the extended family. 

And once you realize that that doesn’t even put the smallest of dents into a jackpot of that size, you move on to the next level. Set up some foundations. Some endowments and scholarships—big chunk gifts to the places that have influenced who we are. 

Ok…so that’s like, what….about 20-30 million down? Only 1.2 billion left. Good. Now then. What’s next? 

As we started to talk we realized that there really wasn’t a whole lot that was left that we could immediately point to as “what I’d do with the cash.” Other than us buying a house so that we could settle down (and by the way, we would still likely be looking for that old, slight-fixer-up Victorian that we are looking for now), there were no real *big* purchases that we had. We don’t need a jet or a yacht. A couple reliable cars and a house. I’m not buying any furs. I hate shoes and purses. I don’t wear much jewelry. Old Navy still sells my favorite jeans for $20. 

Charity, family, and the necessities. 

We would probably travel. There are places we would like to go. But, not a ton that we haven’t visited already. And none that we can’t still do in our lives—none that are prohibitively expensive that we couldn’t probably save up for and do someday if we really wanted it. We’re not trying to go to the moon or anything. 

We might buy tickets to SEE more stuff. I don’t see myself being able to get to the Kennedy Center Honors anytime soon, but that’s a ticket I’d shell out some serious cash for (In a related story…DC friends…how does one get a seat at that thing? Not that I’ll likely ever get there, but I would be very interested in knowing what it takes. Especially next year when the Eagles get the nod. Just asking…) 

I’d probably see Ben Folds more than I already do. 

I’d probably see my friends who are scattered around the country more than I do. 

I might go back to school for another degree that I’ve been jonsing for for a while. 

But I wouldn’t quit my job. (Well, let me rephrase that. I wouldn’t stop working.) J would DEFINITELY have to keep working, or he’d lose his mind. Kids would still go to school every day. And do their chores to earn their allowance. We’d probably still make them find a way to finance their own college, just like we’re planning to do now. 

It occurred to us, that we’re pretty set in our ways. After years and years of counting pennies and working pretty damned hard for what we’ve got, it would take a pretty massive paradigm shift for us to behave differently. And neither of us saw that happening. We like where we are, what we’ve accomplished, and what we call our own. 

This was an interesting life lesson to stumble upon this week. Because, my friends, this week I turn 40. Yes. 4-0. Mid-life crisis land. The turning point in ones’ life. The official mark of “more of my life is likely gone than what I have left.” (Ouch.) This paired with someone asking me this week if Liam was my grandson (yup…that happened) had me really thinking about whether or not I was going to follow ye’ olde crowd, indulge a mid-life crisis and like, cut off all my hair and start a 3-times-a-day eye cream regiment to stave off the aging process. 

But then it occurred to me that I like where I am. I do try to live each day to its fullest. I don’t have regrets in my life (at least over which I have had any personal control. I wish I would have had more time with Mom. I wish my Dad would have met his namesake. But those are not things I get to be in charge of.) But the other stuff--it's all brought us where we are. I could talk about mistakes I've made...better choices that I likely could have made. But a la "11.22.63" what would changing something in my past do to my today? Would it be worth it? Would I be in this wonderful place now if not for those screw ups? Probably not. And definitely not worth going back to change. I'll go ahead and take my battle scars and laugh lines, thanks.

My beautiful husband, whom I believe daily I do not deserve, and I have a good life. A comfortable life. A happy life. We have beautiful children and lovely friends and reliable family. We have enough to be able to do what we need, but not so much that we don’t appreciate what we have. I’ve seen amazing things in the world and traveled more than most. I have been able to attend schools that have challenged me and have provided for me a terminal degree and a career I enjoy and appreciate. And I have no reason to believe that more blessings aren’t in store for me in the days and years to come. 

So, we didn’t win the Powerball and I turn 40. I guess both of these things are ok. Because at the end of the day, I realized that I don’t really need for much. And I have a pretty great life. And I'm doing good things. And I’ve got really good days ahead. 

No Powerball or mid-life crisis necessary.