English majors may grow old, but they never stop being English majors.

You hear them say things like this.

"I am ALL ABOUT the Oxford comma.  I mean, I was an English major."

"I haven't read The Decameron since college.  I was an English major."

"S*Town is SO Faulknerian.  I mean, it's Southern Gothic for the postmodern age."

"Two spaces after a period!  Forever!"

Obviously, being an English major for life empowers you to have strong opinions on some hard hitting issues.  (Sidebar:  I really liked S*Town.  You should listen to it.)

*     *     *    *     *   

Jack's first grade class is learning about poetry.  They are having a recital for the parents next week; each child will recite a poem of their choosing.

Here is Jack's poem:

Dreams 

Hold fast to dreams 

For if dreams die 

Life is a broken-winged bird 

That cannot fly. 

Hold fast to dreams 

For if dreams go 

Life is a barren field 

Frozen with snow.
                

-- Langston Hughes

*     *     *     *     *

Photo by the unparalleled Betsy.

Life is anything but a barren field to me, despite how crazy the world is right now.  The shining faces of my boys remind me every day.  

And then, Jack brings me this poem because it strikes a chord in him.  And it strikes a chord in me, and the audacity of hope continues.  

Well chosen, Jack.  Like a future English major, if I say so myself.

Hope a poem touches your heart today.

Talk soon,
Heather

the elf on the damn shelf

In the gritty hallways of Millington Elementary School, news started circulating when I was in second grade that Santa ISN'T REAL.

Snort, I thought.  That's not true.  No way.  Nope.  Dismiss.

By third grade, I realized that it *could be* true.  Shitty if true, but possible.  I chose to suspend my disbelief and pressed on with my bad self.

In fourth grade, I allowed myself to cross over to acknowledging, publicly, that Mom and Dad are Santa.  In truth, I had noticed years ago that Santa used the same wrapping paper as Mom, and that his gift tags were the same as hers...and that his handwriting was the same.  My burgeoningly analytical mind caught these inconsistencies and saved them for impeachment on cross-examination.

Memories like this make me think that I may have been destined for law school.

*     *      *     *     *

I have written multiple times about my smugness at not having an Elf on the Shelf.  It was a tiny little bit of holiday nonconformism that I really enjoyed.  I mean, we also don't drink eggnog, but that's because it's gross.  (Sorry, Lisa.)

Anyway, that smugness?  It's in the past.  

Here's how it happened:

Jack was getting ready for bed.  He is pretty meticulous with his bedtime routine.  It's probably a function of dragging out bedtime, but I still find it endearing.  It reminds me of my Grandfather Davies, padding around in his man pajamas, getting his carafe of ice water to put by his bedside before turning in for the night.  

Jack:     (almost whiney, but more wheedling)  Hey Mom.  Everyone in my class has an elf.

Me:      (taking a deep breath to start my schpiel about how that's cool, but it's not our tradition...)

Jack:     (guilty mumble) And they really like talking about what they do.  So...I made up an elf so I could talk about with them.

Me:      (Oh...he's not trying to swindle me into getting an elf.  He's confessing because he told a lie!  Oh damn, this is sweet.)  Oooooh, so, um, what did you name your elf?

Jack:    AAAJ.

Me:      (eyebrows raised, nodding slowly)  Oh!  Um, what does that stand for?

Jack:    Well, I wanted him to be really awesome, so I gave him three As.  But then, I figured if he's an elf, then he's joyful, so I added a J.  So, his name is AAAJ.

Me:      (melting)  Oh, buddy.

Jack:    What?  Is it that bad?

Me:      What??

Jack:     ...what I named him?

Me:      No.  It's wonderful.  So, what was AAAJ doing?

Jack:    Hugging my toothbrush.

Me:      ...

*     *     *     *     *

And so, just like that, AAAJ appeared, replete with a note explaining his tardiness.  

So, not only do you need to move the elf every night after your kids go to bed, but when they wake up and find the elf, they can't touch it.  Which is fine when you're almost 7, but is NOT FINE when you are Sawyer and don't give a rat's ass about grown ups and their arbitrary rules.  

So, I had to put AAAJ in places where Sawyer couldn't reach him.  This was inspired, if I say so myself.  

AAAJ and I started feeling more confident with each passing day.

And thirsty.  

*     *     *     *     *

I haven't forgotten to move AAAJ yet.  

My wrapping paper is different than Santa's.  So is the handwriting.

My smugness is gone, but my pride at sustaining the fleeting magic of Christmas through the eyes of my sweet Jack is very much intact.

Hope you acquiesce toward magic today.

Talk soon,

Heather

on boat slips and time warps

I grew up on Maryland's Eastern Shore.  Specifically, on the small, lazy, and peaceful Sassafras River.  We were an hour and change from Washington, Baltimore, and DC, but felt a million miles away (mostly in a good way, except for when I was a teenager.) 

Every summer morning from age 14-19. I walked across the street and down to the hill to my summer job at Georgetown Yacht Basin.  It's a marina, filled to the brim with stunning sailboats, luxury yachts, people spending the summer relaxing, and people navigating the Bay and on the way elsewhere for adventure, after stopping for a tankful, a night, a shower.

With my fair Irish complexion, I wasn't fit for the docks.  Working on the docks meant being outside all day, fueling up boats, receiving visitors into slips and tying them up, bagging ice to sell, and other things that make you very tan and inordinately sweaty in the wet blanket that is Maryland summer.

I worked in the blissfully air-conditioned marine store.  From Monday through Thursday, I was primarily occupied selling boat parts to the cast of characters that worked as mechanics in the Repair Shop.  On weekends, I sold Tervis Tumblers and clamshell shaped Lucite chip and dip bowl sets to the wives.  And bathing suits.  And I sold Sperry's and Clearly Canadian (!) to EVERYONE.

I do regret not learning how to sail.  

*     *     *     *     *

At the going rate, I expect that what Jack and Sawyer will remember most about summer is swimming.  At his outstanding summer camp, Jack takes a few field trips a week and swims EVERY DAY.  He comes home soggy and happy, with the short fuse that comes from having zero percent body fat and swimming EVERY DAY.  He is often hangry.  We have learned to navigate this, mostly.

Sawyer doesn't know how to swim yet, but he's learning.  Every Tuesday and Thursday, all summer, he and I have made our merry way to one of our lovely neighborhood pools so that Sawyer can attend a swim lesson.  His teacher is funny, patient, creative, and awesome.

At yesterday's lesson, he made a huge leap forward in progress.  He didn't freak out when he was dunked underwater.  He put his face in the water and blew bubbles BY CHOICE!  When told to kick, he kicked with ENTHUSIASM!  He was clearly delighted with himself, and then delighted again by the delight of his teacher and and me, sitting poolside.  

When I remember this summer, I will remember taking Sawyer to swim lessons.

*     *     *     *     *

I approached this summer with my trademark perfectionism.  I made a gargantuan rainbow poster filled with summer activities for the boys and I.  At this point in the summer, I'd say we've done respectably well on crossing things off -- barely.  Many a morning filled with ambition about TODAY being the day for a lemonade stand! trailed off into naps and MineCraft and tickle fights.  I am, I suspect, a Pinterest fail.

Come to think of it, what I remember about summers growing up are lazy nights talking to friends on the water, concerts at Merriweather Post, and the general sense of well-being that comes from being tan and having friends and not having a lot on your schedule.

Come to think of it, maybe I'm not a Pinterest fail.  And while sailing would have been nice, I'm okay with my summers, all of them, just as they are.

Hope you enjoy some well-being today.

Talk soon,
Heather

on first grade and fritos

Charlotte Potts taught me first grade.  

We started every day by writing in our notebooks.  It looked like this:

Today is Tuesday, September 7, 1981.  It is sunny.  Today, we have Gym.

After carefully writing the day's details with our number 2 pencils, we had to write a sentence all of our own design.  They looked like this:

This weekend, we are going to the zoo.

Or:

My mom bought me a new dress.  It is pink. 

But usually, it was some narrow variation of this:

I love Mrs. Potts.

I loved Mrs. Potts with my whole six year old heart.  When the advanced reading group met at the table at the front of the room (on the left, up by the floor-to-ceiling chalkboard, you know?) for Open Court, Mrs. Potts invariably ate a bag of Fritos.  

To this day, I LOATHE Fritos.  I am pretty sure it was her only "flaw."

Also?  By first grade, I was pretty sure I had my shit together.

*     *     *     *     *

Jack completed kindergarten last week.  

He had a marvelous year.  He grew -- vertically, emotionally, academically, and socially.  He learned -- Pokemon, math, reading, and tall tale telling.  He bonded -- with his wonderful teacher, his best new friends, and even some friends who proved challenging to him.

And now, with the intrepidity of youth, he's ready for the next challenge.

*     *     *     *     *

I was pretty emotional the night before Jack's last day of kindergarten.  I can't lie.  I mean -- it's totally relatable and it's also platitude central, right?

The days are long but the years are short. 

Childhood is but the blink of an eye. 

There is no love like that of a mother's heart.

Or, as the Interwebz so poetically puts it:

Time is an asshole. 

The truth is that the years are short.  They fly by mercilessly as a blur of soccer practices, negotiating bedtimes, frantic dinner preparation, and weariness at the end of the day.  

But, dammit, they are also a handful of exquisite, crystallized moments -- our butterflies on the first day of school, the awesome field trip, the wonderful Ms. Voyce, the crazy fun Valentine's Day party, and so many laughs and memories and joyful bits.

And so once again, by first grade, I'm pretty sure I have my shit together.

I know Jack does.

Hope your day is full of sweet memories and free of corn chips.

Talk soon,

Heather

on bonbons and half marathons

I am a super Type A perfectionist. (Newsflash, right?)

When I stopped working as an attorney, a friend supportively cautioned me that it might take about a year to adjust.

I scoffed.  (I am also an occasional scoffer.)  

"I'm sure I'll be fine," I thought.  "I think it will take me about three weeks to adjust.  Yup, three weeks."

That was a year ago.  

*     *     *     *     *

I've learned a lot this year.  Here are some of my discoveries:

1.  It is not good for one's soul to do laundry every day.  

Nothing makes you feel like you're in a hamster wheel faster.

2.  Not having a commute is &*(##@ awesome.  

When Durel and I moved back to Austin from DC, I swore that I wouldn't complain about the traffic.  "Nothing will EVER be worse than 5 PM on the Beltway," I thought.  Nothing.  

Oh man,  I hadn't seen 620 at 8 AM, had I?  

3.  Moms need more yoga pants.

One of the best perks of my new job is walking Jack to school every day.  Those first few days of kindergarten, I had an existential wardrobe crisis.  It's 7 AM.  Am I supposed to get dressed?  Have on makeup?  I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

So, I got dressed and brushed my teeth and hair and put on some mascara and lip gloss.  And so did several other moms, I noticed.

You know what?  By Thursday of the first week of school we were all bare-faced in yoga pants.  We haven't looked back.

4.  Labels are dangerous.

I'm going to get sociological for a minute.  Labels are an intrinsic part of human society.  We need to define ourselves, and we do so in large part by comparing and contrasting ourselves with others.  I had (and still have, truth be told) a lot invested in my label of "attorney."  It's a prestigious one and it wears well, like an expensive suit.  

Beware, though.  The label of "stay at home mom" is a patriarchal booby trap.  It should be called CEO, because that's what it is.  Our society systematically undervalues the labor of the home, and that's some bullshit.  I have not started wearing retro dresses (any more than I ever did), and wearing an apron all the time, standing at the ready with freshly-baked, organic, gluten-free cookies.  I do not loll about on the couch eating bonbons.  Let me repeat:  I do not loll.

I also don't grow all my own food or work out for six hours a day.  We don't have a goat or chickens (though not for lack of asking by both Durel and Jack).  I don't stare at Pinterest all day.  I don't make my own cleaning supplies out of all natural ingredients.  

I work.  I do the work that is required to run a household smoothly.  And if you want to get tricky with details, I also do work to contribute to the smooth operation of my parents' household.  

Is there a job title for "double CEO"?

5.  It doesn't matter what people think.

This is the part that takes a year.  This is why I'm writing this post now, not after three weeks.

I lost a few friends when I stopped lawyering.  I saw their eyes glaze over when I told them about my decision to care for my family and take a break from the practice of law.  In large part, I ceased being relevant to them at that moment.  (Lawyers are big on relevance.)

I also made some new friends when I stopped lawyering.  Jack's amazing kindergarten teacher will become a happy hour buddy as soon as we decide it's appropriate.  Some of the moms I've met while volunteering at school are new, good, real friends.  

Apparently, I've inspired some friends, too, which I find surprisingly delightful!  One friend is moving with her family back to Michigan and changing up their work-life balance.  She told me I gave her the courage to think outside the box.  I think that's SO RAD.  

I got reacquainted with myself, too.  I've wrestled with my lifelong ambition of running at least a half marathon, if not a full one.  I pretended that I don't want to do that anymore, what with my 40 year old physique and creaky feet.  I then called my own bluff, because I do.  I remembered that I take a lot of joy in writing and reading and realized that I need to do them more.  I rediscovered cooking for nourishment and relaxation.

To Seussify it, I thought some thinks that needed to be thunk.  

And look!  How happy I am!

Hope your day is refreshingly free of patriarchal booby traps.

Talk soon,

Heather

The Right Time to Say Yay

Last weekend, Cristy and Dagwood drove to Austin from Albuquerque to become Sawyer's godparents.  That was really cool.

We Davies are not overtly religious.  So, I'll leave it at that.

But I will say this:  No less than 5 times, during (intentionally) quiet moments in the service, which was candlelit and rich with significance, Sawyer shouted:

"YAY!"

Indeed.

Hope you have something legit to cheer about today.

Talk soon,
Heather

on firm kisses and unlikely comparisons

Durel and I were talking the other evening about how, even at our ripe old ages, our parents still kiss us firmly on the heads.  

My family has always been pretty affectionate, so I never thought about it.  Durel's family is less demonstrative, so he did.

Here is my operating theory:  No matter how old you get, you are still your parents' baby.  And they will kiss your head firmly, forever.  Because it's in their parental DNA.  They've been kissing you like that since you were born and there simply is no good reason to stop.

*     *     *     *     *  

So, Jack is huge now.  He has seen the first Harry Potter movie and asks me repeatedly when he can go to wizarding school.  (I see Harry Potter themed parties in our future.)  He will play Quidditch, of course.  He anticipates being in Gryffendor, but Durel and I are quick to posit the virtues of Slytherin.  (Seriously.  Slytherin is cool.  It's how you use your power that makes the difference, n'est pas?)

He's big on cocoa, also.  So, imagine the kismet that occurred when one of the items on his monthly homework calendar was to "drink a cup of hot chocolate and use your five senses to describe it."

We got to work, and here's what we learned.  

Me:      OK, Jack.  Let's use your eyes.  What does your cocoa look like?

Jack:    Clear vomit.

Me:      ...Oh!  Uh...OK.

Jack:     You know what I mean. It's all bubbly.

Me:       Rrrrright.  How about your nose?  How does your cocoa smell?

Jack:     (sniffs)  Chocolate!

Me:       Great.  What about touch?  How does it feel?

Jack:     (unceremoniously sticks finger into hot cocoa)  Oh!  LIKE FIRE!

Me:      Wow.  OK.  How does it sound?

Jack:     (looks at me as if I'm a bit daft)  Like bubbles popping.

Me:      OK, most important one!  Let's taste it!

Anyway, that was a successful (and enlightening) exercise.  Here are a few shots of Jack at his best lately. I took them in between stealing every opportunity to kiss him firmly on the head.

As we do.

Holding a baby kangaroo at his friend Addie's amazeballs birthday party.

We big puffy heart love Menchies. 

He stole my sandwich at Panera.

He also ate about half of my pho.  I swear, I feed him.

Hope kisses are firm and vomit is only theoretical in your world today.

Talk soon,
Heather

the one about pie. and wine.

Christmas is an Olympic event to me.

I train for it.  I plan for it.  I make multiple lists.  I mutter over cookbooks weeks in advance.  I dance in my car to Christmas music in November.  Early November.

I'm into it.

Normally, December 23rd (or Christmas Eve EVE, as I call it in my head), is Baking Day.  If I have the great (biannual) luck of being with my sister, Jenny, we listen to the Pogues and the Waitresses and bake cookies and spike our coffee with Kahlua.  

If not, I bake pies all day.  I usually end up with a 1:1 person to pie ratio.  Not because everyone eats a whole pie, but because I want to make several kinds of pie, and why make just one?  Everyone has to taste it, you know.  And of course, my family requires at least three pumpkin pies.  So. I make a lot of pies.

This year, Durel had a great (yet revolutionary) idea.  He suggested that we go to Fredericksburg with PapaDu, Uncle Dustin, Aunt Geri to breathe Hill Country air and drink wine.  (Frederickburg is a Texas German town a little more than an hour away.  It has cuteness and vineyards in abundance.)

I told him that was a great idea.

My brain was freaking out about OHMAGERD THE PIEZZZZZZZZZZZ.  But I told that inner voice to shut up.  And off we went.

I'm also not good at admitting I'm wrong.  But you can guess where this is going.

Durel was right.  It was a perfect (balmy) day and an amazing way to spend it.

Exploring.

I love these people.  So much.

Getting artsy.

My beautiful sister in law.

Moving.

Maxing and relaxing.

Guess what?  I still made pie.  

Hope your Christmas involved the magic of new ideas.

Talk soon,

Heather

the bearded man cometh

We are getting our holiday on over here.  

I would like to say that I'm more prepared this year than I normally am.  I would like to say I can make a perfect cheese souffle.  I would like to say I've run a marathon.  I would like to say a lot of things.

None of these things are true.

But.  But!  Here's what I can say:  I am not stressed out about it.  This is a new and different take on "Heather Less Than Two Weeks Before Christmas."  I can also say that I  learned to make totally bad ass Pad Thai recently.  I can also say that my (brave and supportive) friend Elizabeth has agreed to run a half marathon with me this spring.  

These things are true, and they're lovely.

Jack needed to make a banner for school, depicting our family's holiday traditions.  He promptly demanded to pose for pictures with the dogs.  (And his Santa hat.)

He looks 12 here and it's freaking me out.

As far as I could tell, his sense of our traditions involves: Christmas pajamas, Christmas tree decorating, Advent calendar doing, and dog loving.  

These things are true, and they're lovely.

Hope you're doing your best Bedford Falls, too.

Talk soon,

Heather

the relativity of time (in a car)

My senior year of college, I had a car on campus.  Granted, it was one of my Dad's fleet, so it was ginormous and kind of slow.  Also?  I was damn glad to have it.

The drive from the Eastern Shore of Maryland to Lewiston, Maine is 500 miles.  I averaged a ten hour journey, what with my Diet Coke habit and bladder size.  With typical 20-something exuberance, I thought it was all great fun.  

In typical East Coast fashion, I went through at least part of 8 separate states:  Maryland, Delaware, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Maine.  (I mention this because it would take me ten hours to drive to El Paso from Austin and I'd still be in Texas.)

I marvel at my parents' trust in me and confidence that I would make the drive safely.  I am a safe driver; this is true.  I was surrounded by massive amounts of steel; this is also true.  However, I am their youngest child!  And this was before cell phones!  Ugh.  I clearly have some lessons to learn.  I literally walk Jack to school every morning and watch him walk through the doors and into the cafeteria before I walk away.  (Today, I watched him walk through the cafeteria line and purchase a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos to have later for snack.  You're busted, kid.)

Anyway, I also marvel at my younger self's ability to drive 500 miles and like, not be dead tired when I got there.  I probably unloaded the car and then went to a party.  Oh, college.

In startling contrast to these good old days on the road to Bates, we drove to New Orleans for Thanksgiving this year.  

I learned a lot during this time on the road, which can be summarized thusly:

1.  I am not as young as I used to be.  

2.  Jack and Sawyer are not as old as I used to be (in those college driving days).  

3.  Eleven hours in the car with two children is *about* eight hours too many for it to go well.

Here are the highlights.

After years of visiting Durel's parents in Katy, our bladders and internal clocks are set like Greenwich Mean Time to stop at Hruska's in Ellinger, Texas.  So, obviously, we did.

That was a good choice, as it always is.

Sawyer had his first kolache -- ham and cheese.  Despite the bright morning light bisecting his face, he was enthusiastic about the entire experience.

Jack knows his way around a kolache, which means he was able to overlook their dazzling array and instead, hone in on a cinnamon bun as big as his head.  You can't say no to that.  Well, you can, but we were trying to stave off tantrums for another four hours, at least.

A few hours later, we stopped at Cracker Barrel.  Despite my stubborn support of Cracker Barrel, our experience was, at best, underwhelming.  There were some cute moments, though.

There are not pictures of the low points of the drive.  Trust me, there were low points.  Durel and I were a little punchy as we neared our destination.

And then, just as Cracker Barrel had disappointed us, the liquor laws of Louisiana did not.

Eleven hours and 44 ounces of daiquiri later, we were there.  (Oh Lord no, we didn't finish them.  But it was nice knowing that we *could have* if we'd wanted to.)

Hope your holiday journey has its own rewards.  Also, hope you get to mention bladders twice today and feel really good about it.

Talk soon,
Heather

the lyrics we remember

Jack has inherited my deeply rooted love of Christmas.

Yes, I know that all almost six year olds freaking love Christmas.  It's a temporal wonderland of cookies, special pajamas, staying up late, and Buddy the Elf -- all of which culminates in a visit from Santa and PRESENTS, GLORIOUS PRESENTS!

I get it.

But...I also love Christmas with my whole preppy, sappy, traditional heart.  I know the words to the "real" Christmas carols (Good King Wenceslas, natch).  There is magic in Christmas.  This, I know.

Apparently, Jack knows it, too.  He told me that the purpose of the (magnificent) Christmas tree skirt lovingly embroidered by Aunt Kiki was to "protect the floor from the magic in the presents."  

I'm not sure what would happen if magic hit my floor, but if it's reminiscent of Saturday Night Fever, thank goodness for the tree skirt.

These deep thoughts came out the other night when we put up the tree.

Of course, to balance out what I believe to be Jack's old soul, he also burst out with this other timeless carol:

Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg
The BatMobile lost its wheel and the Joker did ballet, HEY!

Thank goodness he's keeping it real.

Hope you remember the best lyrics this season.

Talk soon,

Heather

worth at least a thousand words

Without further ado, Jack's kindergarten photo:

Of course, I think it's the cutest thing I've ever seen.

I also think about how, when he left the house, his hair was neatly combed and the plaid shirt was buttoned.  

But that's life, isn't it?  He's almost six.  When he goes out into the world, to *his* world of kindergarten, his hair gets rumpled and he unbuttons his shirt because he's living his life.  He's playing, learning, moving, and growing.  

And so, this picture is perfect, rumples, wrinkles, and all.  Because THIS is Jack.  

Hope your school pictures are the best ever, too.

Talk soon,
Heather

eleven hundred and six

Jack and I spent some quality afternoon time together earlier this week.  We got him a much-needed (and very hip) haircut and then stopped by Soup Peddler to see what we might find delicious for dinner.

We ended up eating a super early dinner there, because Jack was adamant about having a grilled cheese sandwich IMMEDIATELY.  I respect the urgency with which we sometimes need a grilled cheese, you know? (I also wasn't going to argue because they had mulligatawny that day.  SCORE!)

He was a little pensive.  Apparently, when you are almost six, you get pensive.  A few weeks ago, it was about the devastating fact that he IS NOT YET SIX.  This was a cataclysm.  I had the unfortunate responsibility to explain that we cannot fix that.  We just have to tough it out, day by day, until the glorious sixth year begins.

We were also pensive about Nutella this morning.  Jack is allowed to have "chocolate toast," (aka, wheat toast with Nutella) one morning a week.  He had it on Monday.  He knew it.  Durel knew it.  I knew it.  

He demanded chocolate toast.  He whined.  He pointed to the pantry emphatically.  He went to the pantry and handed me the Nutella.  (I put it back, but on the top shelf, with the booze.  Touche.)  

Sometimes, you have to stay strong.  We stayed strong.  We hoped that the five bites of Cheerios he grudgingly ate would hold him over until morning snack time.

The struggle is real, you know?

Really though, the pensive moods are pretty quick and infrequent.  They are vastly overshadowed by the ten gazillion things that we are REALLY PSYCHED about.  These things include:  kindergarten, soccer, Sawyer, Star Wars, the new beanbag chairs that Durel bought, chocolate toast (it's really important, you guys), learning to read, and math. 

For instance, this happened:  

Jack:  Mom.  What's 900 + 200?

Me:    Eleven hundred.

Jack:  Nooooo!  That's not a real number!  Ha ha ha!

Me:   Right, OK.  900 + 200 equals one thousand, one hundred.  But sometimes, you can also call that number eleven hundred.  It's like a nickname for one thousand one hundred.

Jack:   [eyes wide; mind blown]  Oh...

Three days later, every picture Jack drew at home was of eleven hundred.  The pictures are folded up like secret notes from middle school, taped with washi tape, and solemnly handed to their intended recipients.

Eleven hundred, you guys. 

Hope the clouds pass quickly and the realizations are momentous.

Talk soon,

Heather

decade

Love is being *this* happy in a windy ass parking structure in Oklahoma City.

Ten years ago, two kids hopped into a silver Jetta and zoomed away from the DC Beltway.  They headed straight back to Austin.  They didn't pass Go, but they did pass a few Stuckey's and a LOT of Cracker Barrels.  

(I maintain:  Cracker Barrel is a fantastic place to stop and go to the bathroom on a road trip.  The restrooms are clean.  They are always in the same place, straight back through the "nostalgic goodies" from the door.  You can get an iced tea to go (sweet or unsweet, thankyouverymuch) and you don't have to stop and eat a Grampy's Breakfast.  But you can.  Up to you.)

Durel and I have decided that I can never get Botox because it will
inhibit my ability to make crazy expressions ALL THE TIME.
I'm a little bit disappointed, but whatever.
Also, this was taken at our amazing engagement party
 held on the DC rooftop of my dear Kristina's apartment building.  

Those kids were named Heather and Durel and they were gonna get married.

*     *     *     *     *

Today's Heather and Durel live in the suburbs, have two human kids and two furry kids, and go to bed earlier than they ever have.  I can't speak for Durel, but I've had bunion surgery and may or may not have Tums in my nightstand.  I have lawyered for a double digit number of years.  We are legit adults now.

We look back at those kids and think, "Damn."  

Young Heather and Durel were unencumbered by hangovers and fear of the unknown and guilt about debt and any thoughts whatsoever about 401(k)s.  I mean, they got their taxes filed and didn't run out of gas regularly (though I've come close more than I care to admit), but you know.  They were...kids.

*     *     *     *     *

On October 22, 2005, young Heather and Durel locked it down with one hundred-ish of their family and best friends watching.  I cried, as I knew I would.  (I'm a crier.)  When I got dressed, I had tucked a Kleenex into my cleavage, "just in case," and as I teared up I realized that I couldn't reach into my cleavage to get it in front of one hundred of our nearest and dearest.  Fat lotta good that Kleenex did me, standing in the oak trees before sunset.

Durel could read my mind then, as he still can now.  He saw the tears coming and saw a thought cross my mind and promptly get nixed.  He smiled a little and reached into his pocket, only to hand me a pressed handkerchief.  

We also look back at those kids and think, "Damn right."

Thanks for the decade, D.  The next ones will be even greater.  I know it.

Hope your big decisions are good for many, many decades.

Talk soon,

Heather

lasagna and salad

When I was a senior in college, I wrote an honors thesis to complete my major in English.  My thesis was one hundred pages long and filled with enthusiastic interpretations of several schools of literary theory.  My argument, as it were, was that the literary theory of feminism must make room for Romantic notions of subjectivity and self, even as it attempted not to due to its frequent alliance with postmodernism.

Phew.  

It's not as embarrassing to read snippets of that thesis now as it probably should be.  I did a good job for an idealistic poet who was trying not to freeze to death in Lewiston, Maine.  And my premise is kind of cute.  I was arguing for The Self.  Take all your theories and be damned if you don't value The Self.  Theory doesn't necessarily work that way, but I tossed in some Baudrillard and some simulacra and argued it with my bad self.

*     *     *     *     *

A few months ago, I took a hard look at my life.  I was in the car, in bumper to bumper rush hour morning traffic, as I was every morning.  I had dropped my amazing boys off at daycare and would be, yet again, late to work.  Austin's population growth had made my commute downtown take about two hours in the morning and one hour in the evening.

My back ached.  I should do yoga.  But when?  I should meditate.  Sigh.  Yeah, right.

My case load at work was more than full.  I was literally juggling cases.  Part of me loved the adrenaline.  (Lawyers love adrenaline, even if they say they don't.)

I hadn't packed my lunch.  I had already driven through the Coffee Bean for More Coffee.  I would buy lunch later.  It probably wouldn't be that healthy.  

I had no idea what we were having for dinner.

My lovely parents moved from Maryland to a retirement community in Austin about 6 years ago.  About three years ago, Durel and I moved to the same part of town so that we could be right down the street.  Mom and Dad's house is 3.1 miles from ours -- a 5K.  

I hadn't seen my parents in a week.  

*     *    *     *     *

I'm taking a break from the practice of law.  I am CEO of our household.  I am in charge of knowing what color Jack's class wears every Wednesday.  I am in charge of costumes for Nursery Rhyme Parade day.   I am in charge of home repairs, vet appointments, dog grooming, grocery shopping, dry cleaning, flu shots, runny noses, meal planning, meal preparation, appliance repair, exterminator appointments, and about one zillion other things.

I am also present in the lives of my children.

I am also present in the lives of my parents.

I am also present in my own life.  Which is pretty rad now, in the wake of my scary ass health experience, which makes me value my time here, and with these people, more than ever.

Apparently, I'm still making arguments for The Self.  

*     *     *     *     *

Hope you know what you're having for dinner.  We are having lasagna and salad.

Talk soon,

Heather

my village

As I mentioned a few days ago, I have been recovering from an emergency surgery for the past 2 weeks.  Everything about this experience has been challenging.

Physically, getting over a surgery stinks big time.  Regrowing blood from lots of blood loss is more exhausting than I can describe.

For me, though, the biggest challenge is always asking for help.  I am really, really bad at asking for help.  (I didn't even join a study group in law school.  I was all, Nah.  I'll just LEARN ALL THE THINGS by myself.)

And so, the experience of this emergency and the surgery and the recovery is being defined, at least to me, by the help we've asked for, the help that has been provided, and the easy love that we've received from our village.

My dear dad drove me to the emergency room so that we didn't send our children into years of therapy by making them watch an ambulance cart Mommy away.

Andy just happened to be in town from Pennsylvania for work.  So, of course, he came to our house and watched the kids so that Durel could jet to the hospital to see me before surgery.  Oh, and he didn't just hang out with Jack.  He taught him to play chess. 

 

Cristy dropped everything and flew to Austin.  She arrived from Albuquerque a few hours after I got home from the hospital.  She walked Jack to school, made me breakfast burritos, and kept us going for those first days home.

Jenny dropped everything and flew to Austin.  She arrived from Delaware the day after Cristy departed.  She walked Jack to school, made me breakfast burritos, made sure I napped enough, and kept us going for the next days home.

Liz brought me a delicious lunch and freezer-friendly dinner, even though she's 9 months pregnant and I should be making her dinners, not the other way around.

Jen and Trevor knew, before Durel and I even realized it, that the best gift for us may be quiet time. And so, they whisked Jack off to the pumpkin patch with their family on a balmy Texas afternoon.  (Durel, Sawyer, and I promptly slept the entire time our little dynamo was gone.  I mean, has anyone had a five year old boy wear a Fitbit?  I would love to know how many steps that kid gets in.  My guess is like 40,000 a day.)

Megan brought me coffee and donuts and changed poopy diapers when I couldn't lift Sawyer and the rest of my boys were on the soccer fields.

I am so lucky.  To be alive.   (This was a life-threatening event.)  To have these friends (and everyone else that I didn't specifically mention, thank you).  To have this family.  To have safe and accessible health care. (I didn't say affordable.  Ambulance rides cost a grand a pop, by the way.  HEYOO, deductible.)  

I'm about to turn 40.  A friend asked me how I felt about it.  I told her that I think it's fantastic.  I get to be 40.  And I'm lucky for that, too.

Hope someone lifts you up today.

Talk soon,

Heather