Thank you for my Gift

I used to think that as a parent, it was my job to impart Gifts to my children.  Not the gifts that Santa brings, but the type of Gifts that will live on long after I am gone. I provide them with love and support.  I teach them everything, from walking and talking to how to be a kind and generous person, a responsible citizen, a respected worker, a loving spouse, and a selfless parent.  I viewed the love of parent and child pulsating between two hearts-glowing and magnitizing-but stronger and brighter in one direction.  As a child myself, I have often wondered if my parents have any idea how deeply I love them...yet as a parent, I understand the profound deepness of parental love.  A child's job is simply to love, grow up, and grow away.  A parent's job is to love, to teach, and to stay still.  We are lighthouses atop a rock-a stable beacon of safety and security for our children so that while they may wander, they may always find their way home.

Of course, as parents, we know that it is ridiculous to think our children don't teach us.  Our children teach us every day.  We learn patience and humility, selflessness and humor.  We learn to recapture innocence.  Our children force us to cast off our glasses, smeared and chipped from the smog and hardships of life so we can see life with the same brilliance they see- dazzling and sparkling under the virgin sun...all of it wondrous and new.  It is in these moments that I am overwhelmed by parenthood.  I am weightless in the joy and warmth.

We also know that our children are our beacon of light.  Yesterday I was changing my son's clothes and gave him a kiss on his belly.  He roared with laughter and shouted, "Again!"  I chuckled and repeated....and repeated...and repeated....and repeated.  We were stuck in a moment that will now forever be part of my fabric-his damp baby breath soft on my cheek, his warm hands on my face, and his sweet baby scent swirling and mixing with his laughter as it hung around us.  We were nose to nose, giggling, breathing each other.  In that moment, I was struck that my children are my Gift, straight from God.  These moments are what Heaven feels like, smells like, sounds like.  In that sliver of space between my nose and his-where we connect as one, in the absence of time and the abundance of light-that is where God lives.   In those moments, God shines through my children to show me the way home.

I know that moment wasn't a gift to my son because that moment has already passed through him, indistinguishable from thousands of other moments.  That moment was a gift meant for me-a moment captured with my breath and absorbed by my heart.

So while I give my children the Gifts they will need to grow and live well, they give me the Gift of Heaven on Earth each day. They help me to see as a child sees, as angels see, as God sees.  Every day they walk me closer to Heaven.  While I have been focusing on giving them the Gifts that will sustain them long after I am gone, they have been giving me the gift of Eternity.

Throwing Away New Year's Resolutions

This time of year is my favorite time of year.  Not only is Christmas my favorite holiday, but because I work in the school system, I get a vacation between Christmas and New Year’s Day.  During this week every year, I play with my children, nap, cook, read, and engage in my guiltiest pleasure-morning news television.  The morning news programs tell me why my winter coat is no longer in style, what those crazy  Kardashian sisters are up to now, which movies I must see, and how to turn leftover Christmas dinner into quiche.  However, there is also a darker side to watching morning news television during this week.  This is the week in which the segments are filled with tips regarding New Year’s resolutions.  Each day I learn how to do more with my money, get fit, and eat healthier.  I watch segments on how to be a better parent, a more dedicated employee, and a more responsible citizen.

 What is wrong with all these tips?  Well, in short, they make us feel lousy about ourselves.  Even the term “resolutions” makes me cringe.  Just the act of making a resolution sends a message that we are broken and must be fixed. When we feel incomplete, it changes who we are, how we look at the world, and how we interact with others.  We exhaust ourselves trying to hide our flaws, appear perfect to the outside world, and find the cure for our hideous imperfections.   Every year, most Americans make a resolution, and every year by February, most Americans have already broken those resolutions.  We feel terrible for being such weak and horrible individuals and we spend the rest of the year silently whipping ourselves for our weaknesses, only to begin the crazy cycle again next year.  Why do we do this to ourselves?

I am calling for the end of New Year’s Resolutions and the beginning of New Year’s Celebrations.  We should celebrate that which is beautiful, special, unique, and ordinary about ourselves.  Instead of looking ahead or lamenting the past, we should be still in the moment.  Sit quietly.  Take in all that surrounds us, all that is within us. We should embrace ourselves, our scars, our soft bellies, and our crinkled eyes- for those scars are trophies of that which have made us strong, our soft bellies reflect time we spent lingering over meals with our friends and family, and every line etched around our eyes tells our story of joy or sorrow.  Instead of resolving to change, we should resolve to first love ourselves as whole individuals, perfect and unique, ordinary and rare.  Wrapped up in all our quirks and “imperfections,” we are whole, we are worthy, we are special.   So I raise a glass and toast to you, for all that you are is all that you need to be in this moment.  Happy New Year!

The King

This short story is a collection of memories documenting the progression of mother deciding to leave her abusive relationship.
The King

All Things Irish

Here is a link to the first few chapters of a book I am writing. It's about a couple trying to conceive while they struggle to balance faith and medicine.

All Things Irish

Orioles Magic, Will it Happen?

I am an Orioles fan through and through.  I don’t think I have a choice; it’s part of my history.  My grandmother was a diehard Orioles fan.  She would make dinner while listening to the game on her radio, which she propped against the screen in an open window for the best reception.   She would read the morning paper and grumble about a trade and get in heated conversations with anyone about the strengths and weaknesses of the team.  She passed her passion onto her boys, who passed it onto their children.  When I think of summer as a child, it was marked by baseball in every way.  It was our lullaby that rocked us to sleep at night, our leisure activity, the background of most events, and theme that ran through most conversations.  My father watched the games on television with the sound muted so he could listen to the commentating on the radio.  If we were so unlucky as to have to travel during a game, the game still came with us through static filled air waves.  There would be times that the static was so loud we couldn’t hear the plays at all, but my father would shush us and listen ever so carefully, only to cheer to curse at something he heard behind the static.  Our favorite family outing during the summer was Buck Night at Memorial Stadium.  My mother filled thermoses full of fresh lemonade, wrapped hot dogs in foil, and packed our gloves. We sat in the bleachers and ate our picnic, listening to the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the call of the vendors. The air was hot and wet and smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, and hot dogs.  It was the smell of the stadium, the smell of baseball, the smell of summer.  We screamed “Charge!” and danced to John Denver and wished we were the lucky soul that just heard, “Give that fan a contract!”  It was a time of the greats: Dempsey, Ripken, Murray, Bumbry, and Palmer.   Fathers watched wistfully at the Ripken clan, wishing they could be the proud father waving their son on to home in the big leagues.   We cheered when Earl Weaver gave us fireworks and we booed when we heard Jim Palmer was hurt, again.  At the end of the night we would sit in traffic for hours trying to get home.  We listened to the post-game show and recapped every amazing play. We didn’t mind. We were proud to be Orioles fans.  I miss those days.  I want to be able to pass on the Oriole pride to my children, but it’s hard to do when we have nights like the other night when we were down by nine runs at the end of the first inning.  All over Baltimore there are conversations about what has gone wrong with the Orioles.  Is it ownership or management, bullpen or bats?  Everyone has a theory.  Some have gotten so disgusted that they have put away their orange and black.  Others have stopped watching all together. Baltimore is tired and broken, mourning the loss of a team we once knew and loved.  While some think our glory days are behind us, I believe we are in a temporary slump.  Baltimore is a proud city.  We are a loyal city.  While we may say that we have given up hope, we can’t shake the Orioles.  Our blood runs orange and black and we can’t deny what is part of us, part of our history.  We are 33rd street and Camden Yards, Robinson and Roberts, and everything in between.  Deep in our bones, we remember what it was like to be great. While we may say we have given up all hope, I believe most of us are just waiting for the magic to return to Baltimore.  I just hope it happens soon; there is a whole new generation eager to  make new baseball memories.

A Call for More Responsible Voting

John Adams once said, “In a large society, inhabiting an extensive country, it is impossible that the whole should assemble to make laws. The first necessary step, then, is to depute power from the many to a few of the most wise and good.”  I tripped across this quote the other day and it gave me pause. I have always viewed our elected politicians as mere representatives of the larger population.  Campaigns and elections are built on the concept of selecting a person to go to Washington to represent and reflect the views of the larger community.  As citizens, we have visions of our representatives sitting in on the Hill saying, “The people don’t agree and since my votes represents them, I vote nay.”  Of course, that isn’t how it really works, and this is why the general population is angry. In politics, there is maneuvering and deal making, party lines, political favors and promises.  There is no representation of the people, except in rhetoric and sound bites. Somewhere between John Adams and John Boehner, our political system has moved from the responsibility to govern to the responsibility to maintain power. This isn't the fault of those elected, but the fault of those who elected them.  Our forefathers laid down specific guidelines that we have ignored.  They asked us to select the good and wise, not the greedy and petulant. This is where we, as Americans, have failed ourselves.  We have become careless citizens, ignorant and lazy, dismissive of our power and responsibility to vote for those most qualified to lead us. We vote because we like someone’s smile.  We vote because they look like us, talk like us, are of similar intelligence, and check the same party box.  We vote based on promises that are appealing to us as individuals and forego the needs of the country as a whole. We vote because we don’t like the last guy or because our lives don’t feel better since we last voted.  We vote for the person with the better sound bites.  We forget that we aren’t voting for student body president, but for elected representatives that govern our entire country.  The competence of our leaders is a direct reflection of the care we take in selecting them.   As citizens, we have the responsibility to select our leaders with care; we should be choosing educated, thoughtful, wise, and careful men and women to lead and govern.  We don’t need leaders who think like us; we need leaders who think better than us.  During this debt crisis, the concern isn’t that there won't be a decision.  Come next week, a decision will be made. The concern is that it won’t be the best decision because as Americans, we have not chosen our best, most wise men. We have chosen rookies, mavericks, outliers, and fringe characters who are nothing more than sound bites.  We proudly chose officials that know less about world history, geography, and government than us. We didn't choose leaders based on credentials, but lack thereof.  American voters have behaved like children, choosing the most popular kids who foolishly promised recess every day.  It’s the Lord of the Flies in government right now and it’s our fault as voters.  We didn’t vote for the grown-ups who could responsibly manage complex economic and political issues, we voted for the cool kids.  May this debt crisis be a wake-up call for all Americans to be more thoughtful and informed voters. We can no longer make decisions based on party lines, personal convictions, charisma, or flashy campaign ads.  We have a responsibility to use our vote wisely.  We need a collection of men and women who are much smarter than us. We need leaders who can come together and make decisions that are about governing, not about politics.  We need a collection of men and women dedicated to the preservation of the country and not the preservation of power.  We need a collection of the most wise and good.  We can save our popularity votes for American Idol.

The Feel of Love

When I first met my husband, I couldn’t remember what he looked like the next day. Even after several dates, when we would meet, I was always surprised by his appearance. There is nothing wrong with my husband’s looks; I kept forgetting what he looked like because for the first time, my heart served as my eyes. My vision of what is true and good is much better this way. I should have used this technique a long time ago-I could have saved myself a lot of trouble trying to make the ugly pretty.

The night we first met, there was a hum and a pulse that slowly moved us through space towards each other. I didn’t notice. I was still seeing with my eyes. In blurry moments of rich darkness and laughter, we were together, alone, in a crowd. The hot night air wrapped the two of us up tightly. The hum and the pulse smothered the noise from the outside world. I remember his laugh tickling my ear, the gentle touch of his hand on the small of my back, the feeling of the night air on my skin as it drew us together. The world faded away. I could almost see the light connecting our hearts and pulling us together. Not a rope of light or an extra-terrestrial beam of light jetting out from our bellies, but a glow and a hum that is silent and invisible, blinding and deafening. Encapsulating us. Protecting us. When I think of my husband, I don’t see a body or a paycheck, labels, skills or scenes…I see the light and the hum-it draws me in, wraps me up, and keeps me safe.

He is the warm breath on the nape of my neck- the open, relaxed lips and brush of the nose right before a kiss-the eyes that I fall into and hope to get lost in forever. He is the nook of his neck where my head fits perfectly and I lay contently, breathing in the sweet fragrance of soap and shaving cream. He is the arms that wrap around me to block out the world and squeeze out my demons, keeping me safe from even myself. He is my harbor, my home, my life, my light, my redemption, my salvation, my love. I am me. He is him. Stripped down. Honest. Naked. Whole. Complete. Perfectly Imperfect.

I see him best when we are together, tangled and melted into one, eyes closed, breathing each other, with no beginning and no end. With every breath, we melt deeper into each other, into the universe, into ourselves. We are limp with light and warmth- like napping in warm sand. Our love rushes in and settles like a tidal pool, warm and safe and playfully inviting. This is what love looks like feels like to me.

 

The Man and The Boy

I see a man. The man stands tall, proud, pure. He is a good man with a good heart. He believes in love, family, justice, peace, decency, honor. I see a boy. The boy cries for the childhood lost, the memories tainted, the scars, the wounds, the loneliness, the hurt. The boy cries for himself. The boy cries from guilt. The boy cries from anger. The boy cries from sadness. The boy cries from fear of the darkness of his thoughts. The boy cries all the tears he never cried. The boy desires to please, to smooth, to forget. The man knows these are childish thoughts. There is no forgetting, no undoing. There is only movement forward. Through pain. Out of childhood. Out of the past. The man weeps for the child. He weeps for his foolishness. He weeps for his innocence. He weeps for all things lost and all things that will never be lost. The two weep together until they are one.

Love Is...

Love isn’t a feeling or a passion, it’s a series of small actions shared between two people. It isn’t big events or grand gestures, but the things that happen in the little spaces, the small breaths, the silent seconds of every day.

Good love knits together these actions and these moments into a tight weave, folding the fabric back on itself time and time again until a thick quilt is formed, creating a cocoon for those wrapped inside. It offers protection, warmth, safety, comfort.

Bad love tries desperately to string together a series of big actions using big looping stitches, trying to shortcut and ignore the strength of the small stitch. The knots and stitches are loose, lumpy, and uneven. In the end, there isn’t a fabric but more of a moth-eaten bit of cheese cloth. Those that have woven this fabric foolishly think no one sees the holes. When others aren't looking, they pull and tug, stretch and fluff, desperately trying to smooth over, plump,and brighten the coarse bits of fray. They try to wrap themselves, but find only a fight with the other for warmth and protection. When one wins, the other loses. The fabric isn’t big enough for both. Both are left bitter, cold, shivering,and exposed to the elements.

Vacation Memories

As a child, vacation held just as much anticipation and excitement as Christmas, and took just as much preparation. For the week leading up to vacation, my mother would bake dozens upon dozens of cookies and other sweets. She and my aunt would go grocery shopping and fill two or three carts full of food until the carts were so overstuffed that our jobs as kids was rush around behind them like ball boys and girls, picking up any stray items that fell out as they tried to steer the impossibly heavy carts. They would bake hams and roasts and slice them thinly into lunchmeat and make casserole upon casserole until our freezers were as overstuffed as our little tanned bellies would be in just a week's time. My grandmother would take a special trip to the UTZ factory downtown to buy large tins of chips and pretzels that stood half my size. As kids, we would have to dip the entire top half of our bodies into the tin while our toes strained to keep contact with the floor to get the goodies at the bottom of the tin. Everything we scored would be soggy, stale, and sandy. We didn't care. Everything we ate tasted marvelous because the rules were different on vacation. After all, we didn't have to ask permission. My grandmother always saved the empty tins and she would fill the empty tins with homemade Chex mix. It would take her weeks to make enough batches to fill the tin. Once the tin was unpacked from the car, we would immediately attack like locusts, leaving only buttery fingerprints, melba toast, dark burnt Chex pieces, and peanuts for the grown-ups to enjoy.

My father made playlist after playlist so we had the perfect soundtrack for every occasion and made sure we had enough batteries for the boom box. My uncle spent hundreds of hours, and dollars, getting his boat and all accompanying gear ready to make the trip while my Aunt Bridget shook her head and muttered under her breath what sounded like a string of curse words and something about a hole in the water where her money went. My uncle would bow his head sheepishly and run his hand through his hair while saying, "But Bridge, the kids love it." It was the statement that ended all arguments.

The night before vacation, it was almost impossible to sleep; my mind was like MTV, rapid firing videos in a disjointed mess of memories of vacations past and daydreams of the potential fun to come. Just as I would drift off, a flashy new jingle for Hawaiian Punch rafts would jolt me awake again.

My parents would get up at sunrise and start to pack the car. We lived next door to my aunt and uncle, who were also up packing. My bed was positioned in front of the window and I was able to watch the grown-ups, like small ants, rushing back and forth under the sleepy sky, packing and repacking three cars and a boat until everything fit. Time moved impossibly slowly. They would stop and chat as the light started to bleed into the purple sky while my impatience grew. Didn't they know it was vacation, for God's sake? Let's go! By the time my parents opened my door to tell me it was time to go, I was bursting and bouncing with exuberance.

We would caravan down Route 2, three overstuffed cars and a boat. We would have to pull over from time to time to make sure everyone was still together. I never understood why, when we had been doing this for years, the adults were still confused about how to get there. I would sleep in the car, only to wake at the exact moment my father had to drive over the bridge. My mother would patiently turn to me as I yammered excitedly on and on about nothing and remind me of the rule of no talking while Daddy was on the bridge. It took an immense amount of concentration to stop my mouth from taking off without me during those dreadfully long three minutes.

Once on the road, my father wasn't big on stopping. If we had to go to the bathroom, we had to alert him when we first got the sensation in hopes that we wouldn't pee ourselves by the time he finally decided to pull over. For this trip, he liked to get over the Bay Bridge before stopping to get breakfast. That meant we ate in Easton or Ocean City, depending on when my mother finally put her foot down.

The caravan would pull up to the vacation house and the kids would tumble out of the car and go scampering in all directions like little puppies, peeing on things, rolling in the sand, eating unwrapped candy left lying around. Our parents had the dubious task of wrangling us while simultaneously hiking suitcases, coolers, boogie boards, kites, sand toys, and a myriad of other junk up several flights of stairs.

Time is tricky on vacation. In the small spaces of nothingness throughout the week, the kids get antsy. It seems like the entire vacation is spent waiting...for beach time to come, for sunscreen to be applied, for the ice cream truck to come, for the bus to come, for the waves to come, for night to come, for lifeguards to come, for lifeguards to go, for the tractors to come, for wind to come, for dinner to be finished, for bathing suits to dry, for naptime to be over, for the grown-ups to stop talking. In the small moments of waiting and the big moments untethered joy, time sneaks behind us on it’s tippy toes and jumps up to surprise us at the end of the week. Time doubles over in laughter at this clever joke while we are left shaken, hurt, and stunned. What just happened? We try to recount the week, as if we could locate the missing time and tack it onto the end of the week. The efforts are fruitless. Vacation is a space with everything and nothingness all tangled together and separating the two is impossible. Vacation isn't about specific events, but a warm gooey blending together of all the senses.

We still go to the beach every year. My dad still makes playlists and my uncle still brings the boat. The house still swarms with people as they catch scent of my mother's famous lasagna. Gone is the small beach store where my father got his morning coffee and paper and our yearly supply of glow sticks and rafts. Sunsations dot each street corner now. We have said goodbye to some and welcomed others as our family continues to grow and change. The scenes are the same, but now the children have become the parents, and the parents have become the grandparents.

Memory is like ambient light, especially where childhood is concerned. My vision of my parents gleefully packing the car looks different under the bright lights of my own parenthood experience. I now know it isn't all that exciting to pack and repack at the crack of dawn in the pitch black. Sunsations isn't Mecca, the Boardwalk isn't as great as Disneyland, and time feels different sitting on the sidelines baking in the sun than it does bobbing gleefully over the waves. I am thankful for memory's ability to soften the rough edges and make the colors, scents, and scenes more vibrant- for myself and for my children. After all, vacation is still the best week of the entire year.

Women with Fertility Problems: The Modern Day Hester Prynne

Women experiencing fertility problems are the Modern Day Hester Prynne. No longer is is shameful to sleep with another man's husband. It is also no longer sinful to covet, lie, steal, or cheat. As a matter of fact, in today's society, engaging in those behaviors puts a person on the fast track to becoming famous. However, to have the word infertility linked to a woman's name, now that is shameful. It is so shameful that a fifty year old movie star will swear she got pregnant naturally, even though it is virtually impossible. Women with infertility are first sentenced when given a scarlet letter-made of paper, not rags-that says, "Please go visit one of the following infertility specialists." They are sent to an office with letters the size of a billboard announcing FERTILITY SPECIALIST. Only those that have been given the scarlet letter are able see the subtitle, "Wasteland of the broken women. Have pity on their souls." The Modern Day Hester Prynne tries to go about her life. However, instead of wearing the letter proudly, she fervently hides the letter. With every attempt at deceit and denial, the letter glows hotter, branding and blistering the skin. Upon discovery, others offer pity, condemnation, confusion, judgment, fear, or combination of the above. Her shame sears her skin with every announcement that someone is having a baby, every attendance at a baby shower, and every opportunity to hold a baby. Every month that goes by without two pink lines, she picks at her scabs with hatred and disgust. In an attempt to heal, the Modern Day Hester Prynne seeks books, websites, friends, family, specialists, herbalists, yoga masters, organic farmers, life coaches, and any other carpetbagger that claims to hold the secret cure to infertility. These cures prove to only aggravate the wounds, making them sting and ache and bleed. The wounds can't be hidden; attempts just leave a stain caused by the oozing, sticky wound.

The branding scars and disfigures the heart, the head, the womb, the words, the thoughts, the actions, the life, the future, the past. For many women, they will find a cure or will learn to embrace their situation. They are the successful Hester Prynnes. They will wear their letter proudly. Others will never find a cure. They will eventually move on and stop picking the scabs. They will let their wounds heal. The scars serve as reminder of their failures as women, as mothers, and as wives.

I don't know if, as the scars turn white and fade back into the skin, the pain also fades. I don't know if, or when, it stops being the event that eclipses all else, defining every moment, every breath. I don't know when it stops feeling like a punishment from God. I don't know if infertility is a theme that weaves through the entire book, or just a chapter that sets the stage for the larger story. I don't know what happens next. Only time will tell. You see, I am one of the many Modern Day Hester Prynnes.

Catching Fireflies

When I was young, I loved the fourth of July. The fourth marks some very key moments in the summer. It is the time of year when honeysuckle blooms and the hot air smells sweet and delicious. It's the kick off to summer marked by parades and fireworks, mosquito bites and snowballs. It's dancing and twirling barefoot in the grass, and artwork burned into the inky night sky by sparklers. Most importantly for me, the fourth of July marks the beginning of firefly season. There is nothing like running, jumping, and squealing in delight, deep in the chase for bits of pixie dust floating in the air. The art of the hunt, the thrill of the catch. Catching a firefly is like catching a star, a mystery, a pixie, a fantasy. The night stands still, holding it's breath...waiting. The slow unfolding of the hand, the blackness in the palms, until...THE BURST of light that moves slowly on the fingertips and then floats effortlessly into the darkness. It is a fantastical event that captures the beauty of childhood, the spirit of happiness.

Much of that had been lost for me. Times are busy and somehow Pottery Barn catalogs crept in and eclipsed the brilliance of sparkler art.  I can't identify when I lost that untamed happiness. For me, there wasn't a defining moment but more of a series of events that shaped who I was, what I thought, and how I perceived the world. There also wasn't a moment that I recaptured the spirit of childhood. I didn't find the secret to happiness and now I am dancing around with sparklers at night while proclaiming to love my cellulite. I am, however, moving deeper into happiness every day. I am learning to live in the moment, accept myself, take deep breaths, and drink in joy. I am washing off the dark, sticky tar of guilt and unworthiness.  I am doing the hard work of forgiving myself and finding peace and acceptance in my life. I am catching those brilliant moments of happiness, those that appear magically like fireflies to light up the night sky.  I am learning to coax those moments gently in my hands and then sit quietly and appreciate their brilliance, only to let them go back into the night sky, fulfilled by the hunt, and the glory, of catching magic.