Unprepared, but Breathing

It has been an eventful few weeks in our family but the most difficult has the been the loss of our beloved dog, Cassie. She was a beautiful seven year old full sized rough collie. She became ill and died in a very short time.

The physical impact of grief was not new to me as I have lived through loss, many times. It was genuinely unexpected so there was no time to prepare or create space for the oncoming pain. It took some time to breathe, to make room for the loss of my constant companion, to let the feelings land in the moments, and shed cleansing tears. In some ways, it was a storm and I had to let it pass over and through me.

It has been two and a half weeks since her passing. I have not quite stopped looking for her around the house, anticipating her greeting when I come home. I try to talk about the good times with her so we can all remember the joy she brought to our lives, not the last brave moments full of tears in the vet’s office. We took some time to remove her physical presence like her food and water bowls, toys, and leashes. Over the last few days, it happened as the time was right.

The outpouring of compassion from friends and family was something else I for which I was unable to preapre. People sent flowers, cried with us, sent cards, and expressed their love on social media. I had to breathe, to meditate and pray to accept all that wonderful love. I have a new appreciation for the people who fill our lives with amazing love in good times and bad. And I am truly grateful that they honored the place Cassie held in my life.

Just three days ago, we adopted a one month old puppy, and I found myself, once again, unprepared. Rationally, I knew there would be sleep deprivation and constant attention but I expected it to take longer to find the next member of our family. We found Finnegan and knew quickly that he was the one. I was moved to tears in lobby of Central Oklahoma Humane Society as I knew he would be ours. I was helpless to avoid the emotional earthquake that was this tiny, vulnerable life who would instantly be dependent on me, on my family, for his survival. I knew I wasn’t ready, that I needed a little time to prepare. Life isn’t like that, though. When you are open to relationships, even with pets, you have to leap.

With a round of texts and images, my amazing family took that leap with me, and he’s now taking an after breakfast nap in his crate in the bedroom my husband and I share. He is wrapped in a soft old shawl of mine surrounded by soft cuddly toys. We are shattered by the similarity to raising our own infants, by his utter need and devotion, and by the depth our own adoration for this dog. We had forgotten the simple joy of meeting the physical needs of a small one. Thank you Finnegan for reminding us of the joys we had set aside for the more sophisticated art of parenting older kids.

We have recalled the joyful times, not only with Cassie but with one another. We have, finally, remembered to breathe.





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Home is where the heart is

We recently celebrated a huge milestone for our family, the college graduation of our daughter! I am beyond proud of her accomplishments and the life she is building.

We spent the last four years making Annapolis an extended part of our home while she attended St. John’s College. Having visited many years ago before our daughter was born, we enjoyed renewing our acquaintance with the historic cobblestone streets and lovely restaurants. The graduation trip was full of happy memories and bittersweet moments. This picture was taken just as the sun was setting by the harbor. The streets were full of people laughing and talking. There was a special light in the sky that this picture isn’t quite able to capture.

It is a happy memory, and one I felt like sharing today. I leave these words by Sue Monk Kidd to frame the sunset:


“the redness had seeped from the day and night was arranging herself around us. Cooling things down, staining and dyeing the evening purple and blue black.”
Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees


Annapolis in the glow of sunset.

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Baby Steps

Here I am, a few years into my journey to being a professional writer. I write almost every day, submit stories, participate in a critique group, and attend local writer’s club meetings. I seek out conferences to attend. I read everything. I am giving my writing craft the time and energy it needs to grow.

At this point, I need a finished product–a book. I need to prove to myself that I can finish a book length project. I need that foundation upon which I can sell my writing to an agent or publisher, but most of all to readers. I need to be able to believe that I am not just a crafter of exceptional sentences and scenes.

Over the past few years, I have developed some good stories and two great concepts that I hope will become novels. I began work and have made progress on each. And by progress, I mean 75-100 pages of character development, setting descriptions plus actual writing. I love these two stories. I long to write them. I am bonded to  the strong but vulnerable characters and the people they meet along their journeys. I want to inhabit the worlds I have built, and invite readers to join me there. I keep staring at the notebooks I created for each novel. I have struggled with my stunning lack of progress as I continued to move forward in other areas of my writing life. I poke at the work, and delve deeper down the rabbit hole of research and write scenes to fill in the spaces between the buildings of the narrative (Thanks Tom Borcazk for this image). Are these fledgeling novels my adult author version of building castles out of sand? Or are they the works upon which I will build my career?

Recently, I wrote a new story. Right away, I knew that this was another book length project. I felt that buzz when I write something good and true. I knew that the characters had more to tell me than a short story length allows. Then, I attended the May meeting of Oklahoma City Writer’s Inc. and heard JB Hogan speak. (If you haven’t read his work, you should.)

Mr. Hogan told us a little about his writer’s journey. To paraphrase the part of his presentation that made an impact on me: He has been a writer since 1970. He finally found his own author voice in 1985. About that time, he put his work away in a box in the closet, and stopped writing. But he resumed work on his projects again with renewed passion. Eventually, he rewrote all of his early works.

I interpreted his act of packing the old work away in the closet as a huge leap of development he experienced as a writer. Maybe he got to the point where his skills and perspective had changed. Maybe he had grown into a more mature writer. As I listened to his words, I accepted that my two novels-in-progress need to be rewritten. Perhaps one day, I will find the right time to rewrite them and finish the stories that are close to my heart. This is not their time. For now, it is more important to finish a book length project.

I accept that I am at a point of growth in my work. I am only a few years into my journey as an author.  I gave myself permission to honor the baby steps of growth that I have taken as a writer. With a great deal of peace, I placed the two novels-in-progress carefully on a shelf. I will have to wait, along with potential readers, to inhabit those worlds.

There is a new work in progress, now.

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First Prize, OWFI Short Fiction!

I am beyond excited to announce that my short story, “December Silence” was awarded first place in Short Fiction at the Oklahoma Writer Federation Inc contest this past week! 

I can’t thank my critique group enough for their encouragement and guidance. Nelda and Ed– you are rock stars! 

Here it is! 






The holiday pressed in on them like a coming storm. The waves of cheerful excitement were pushed daily closer to their small house by the anticipation, hope, and wonder of neighbors. One night a few weeks after Halloween, Jack stood at the front window watching his neighbor put Christmas lights on the eaves.

A heaviness settled low in his belly where a healthy band of muscle used to be his secret pride. His pants now hung loose on his hips, his belt tightened beyond its smallest setting. He knew there were shadows under his eyes. He saw them on his wife’s face, too. JoAnn was still lovely but thinner and haunted.

Seven months before, their only son had died. At fifteen, he had been lanky, tall, and good natured. They called him Jimmy but his proper name was Walter James, after his grandfather. He was always a healthy and active child. The illness that took his life came on suddenly. What started as a cold, turned into a stiff neck and headache. It was meningitis. When his fever shot up and he began to vomit and speak erratically, his parents took him to the hospital. Blood was drawn, a spinal tap and other mysterious tests were performed while their son lay pale and restless in the stark white sheets of the emergency room. Even before the test results could be obtained, antibiotics flowed into Jimmy through the veins in his strong young arm. It was taped to a stiff board to keep the elbow extended to protect access to his blood vessels. A few frantic hours later, he was in the ICU of their local hospital fighting the deadly swelling of the tissues around his brain. Not even a day later, his brain was dead. The infection had inflamed the thin tissue surrounding his brain cutting off the life-giving blood supply and strangling vital tissue. As their son’s body lay unusually still, Jack and JoAnn numbly signed papers to donate Jimmy’s organs.

Jack spoke to the doctor about the process while his wife quietly cried, and clutched his hand. He asked questions about the transplants. Could the disease be transmitted through the cornea, liver, lungs, kidneys, heart? The doctor explained the procedures and the tests to prevent transmission. He described the dozen or so lives that could be saved. The tired eyes of the doctor met Jack’s. A sturdy hand reached out to firmly clasp the father’s shaking shoulder. He thanked the shattered couple for the gifts they were giving.

Months later, Jack still could not meet his own eyes in the mirror when he shaved. That is where his memories lived. Countless times over the fifteen years of Jimmy’s life he had burst with pride when someone said, “Ah, he’s got your eyes, man.” Tears threatened. It had been many weeks since he had shed a tear. Standing at the window staring at the emerging lights, the heaviness in his belly became a burning anger. How is it that Christmas lights could have the power to bring him to weeping again, after all this time.

The evening newspaper lay unread on the coffee table. He smelled food but it was not a meal, merely something to fuel their bodies. JoAnn had given up her practice of bustling around the kitchen with music playing while whipping up delicious and creative meals. Neither of them had any interest. He sighed heavily and turned away from the horrible twinkling lights and pulled the drapes closed.

The two of them spent a quiet Thanksgiving at home. She went to some trouble to serve a small turkey breast and pre-made side dishes. It looked and smelled like Thanksgiving. The taste was flat, though. It may as well have been plastic food, but he smiled a small smile at his wife for her effort. They ate together at the dining room table with tall white taper candles glowing. As they cleared the main course dishes to make rom for coffee and pie, he noted with horror that a single place setting remained on the sideboard: one shiny plate, a set of silver flatware gleaming in the candle glow, a neatly folded dark green linen napkin, and a solitary goblet.

It was all he could do not to vomit. He looked at his wife horrified at the tangible reminder. Had it been intentional? But no, the look on her face told him that it had been a mistake. In her habitual holiday table setting, she had mistakenly taken out three of everything instead of two. Jack saw something else in those eyes, her need to share the rawness of her pain. He reached for her, tears streamed freely down both of their faces. They stood in the glow of white taper candles, holding onto one another floating on waves of gaping loss.

They ate none of the pretty bakery pie, but cleaned up together in silence. Football played on the television but the sound was off. The whole world seemed to be filled with an enormous silence. That night, most of the neighbors finished decorating for the holiday. The hush of winter’s darkness was pushed back little by little as holiday lights twinkled into life all around them. Their house remained quiet and dark, exhausted with grief.

Nights turned cold that week, so Jack built a fire in the fireplace. Every stick of this load of firewood had been stacked by Jimmy in the first warm days after winter. Jack didn’t want to let the thought form but it popped into being as he lit the long match. He lost his breath.

At the sound of his hitched breathing, JoAnn looked up from the book in her lap. She watched her husband’s hand stop inches away from the small pile of kindling. The shredded wood bark nestled with a wax covered pine cone waiting to burst into warm flames. After a moment, he looked over to her. His eyes glanced mutely at the neat stack of firewood in the basket by the low brick hearth.

As he looked back at her, realization dawned in her eyes and he watched the grief spark in her, anew. She recalled the bright spring day as well as he did. The snow was barely gone and next winter’s supply of firewood had been delivered. It was Jimmy’s job to stack it before hanging out with his friends. As he had been taught, Jimmy neatly re-stacked the remaining wood nearer to the house. Its dry logs would catch quickly in the chill of autumn. The green wood was stacked just as neatly beyond the old wood. No logs would tumble during spring rains or summer storms. The young man had even swept the sidewalk and driveway clear. After work, the proud father observed his son’s work. He was pleased and told his son so at dinner. The boy glowed under his father’s praise.

The long match burned half way to Jack’s fingers before he breathed. He was surprised that he did not feel a stabbing pain in his lungs when he drew in much needed air. One more stiff inhalation and he remembered how to breathe. JoAnn’s slim fingers wrapped around Jack’s until, at last, the match touched the kindling and their son’s last wood pile began to burn to ash.

He lay awake one cold night after Thanksgiving, unable to sleep. Twinkling lights surrounded the house on every side. A glow of ethereal blue came from next door where his old friend and neighbor had wrapped the trunks and branches of every tree tightly in strings of tiny blue LED lights. Even the wood fence was topped with blue lights so the glow invaded the bedroom. One red light flashed on a plastic reindeer’s nose. He wondered moodily at the power consumed by the array of bulbs.

Nights like this were excruciating. Memories lapped through his mind with ceaseless regularity, and relentless force. Tonight, he recalled a long ago day. His last living relative, his mother, had died quietly in her sleep. She had been eighty-three years old. He recalled the hollow reality of knowing that he had no first degree relatives remaining alive. Both of his parents had been only children. Now, there was not a living soul who knew him as a baby. He felt deeply grateful for his mother’s attention to documenting his life in scrapbooks filled with black and white photos captioned in her careful handwriting. The whole of his life had been defined by the loving influence of his parents. Now, he was all that remained of their legacy.

Jimmy had been confused by the loss of his grandmother, his father’s tears, the strange people, and and the disruption to his life. Standing outside the church, Jack talked quietly to the boy who had a few moments before fled the sanctuary in a quiet rage of tears, unable to assimilate the experience of seeing his beloved grandmother’s lifeless body on display in a box.

“Funerals are an awkward business, son.” He felt the crisp fall wind on the back of his neck where his seldom worn suit and overcoat gaped. He bent low to talk to his six year old son. One large hand rested on Jimmy’s bony shoulder. “You see, Granny is in heaven, like we talked about. Her time here is over and this is our time to say goodbye.”

His son’s huge brown eyes looked up at him under a fringe of wind tossed nut brown hair. It was rare to see Jimmy stand so still with his mouth in a quiet frown. The boy sniffed bravely and nodded once at his father.

“That’s a good boy. Your granny would be so proud of you. Remember, what you see in the coffin is not her. She’s up in heaven with my dad, your Grandpa. And they are so happy to be together.”

“Doesn’t she miss me?” Jimmy demanded.

“Ah yes, her heart is broken for missing you, I know it. Do you know who else is up there? Her folks. And that puppy who died when she was a girl. What was his name? The boxer.”

“She told me his name was Bruce,” came the quick reply.

“That’s right, Bruce. Everyone dies, son. None of us knows when our life on earth will end. Just like the preacher says. And now, Grandma needs us to gather with her friends who are still living and say a proper good bye. Later, we will all be together at her house. The ladies will have made cakes and pies. And we will all tell stories of Granny. There will be some crying, but also laughing.” He squeezed his son’s shoulder once more. “Are you ready?”

The boy reached out for his father’s hand. He straightened his young slim shoulders, lifted his chin in a mirror image of the older man’s posture. They walked into the church down the long aisle to the playing of organ music.

In the dark of night, tears flowed freely down Jack’s face until, finally, sleep came.

The Christmas cards came in daily. A small neat pile grew on the hall table. They separated out the cards from regular mail. Neither of them had the strength to open the cheery greetings. One night, she quietly asked, “What will we do about Christmas cards?” They had sent them out each year of their nineteen year marriage. They looked at one another helplessly, wondering into the silence. How would they manage it? Who would want to hear from them this year? How would their Christmas letter read? It simply couldn’t be pondered.

“I say, we take this year off from Christmas cards.” He suggested on a tired sigh.

She let out a relieved breath. “I can live with that.” After a moment she went on, “And while we’re discussing it, what about decorations?”

Again the silence stretched between them.

He took a deep breath, looked at his wife and said, “Maybe just the nativity?” He referred to the delicate pale blue porcelain nativity they had received as a wedding gift.

She blinked at him with unshed tears. “That’s just the right thing. Can you help me with the boxes?”

Cold settled deep in the earth as November became a snowy December. One bright morning they awoke to find the better part of a foot of snow blanketing their neighborhood. He stood at the front window drinking hot coffee.

“It’s been a few years since I had to clear the walk. Do you think I remember how?” He asked his wife as she joined him at the window to look out at the snow.

She laid a hand firmly on his arm, “Oh, I am sure you will remember. Do you want me to help? I used to be good with a snow shovel.”

He patted her hand and looked out at the stunningly bright, snow covered yards. “Thank you dear but I think I would like to do it on my own, just this once.”

A little while later, he was bundled up and opening the garage door from inside. He pulled on warm work gloves and reached for one of the snow shovels hanging neatly on the wall of the garage. He tried not to think, the last person to hang this shovel was Jimmy. The thought filled his mind and he blinked back tears. Firmly, he grasped the shovel and went to work on the wide driveway. It took him longer than he remembered to finish the pavement in front of his house. When he was done, he sprinkled some melting agent on the front steps and sidewalk. He stood on the front porch leaning on the shovel looking at his handiwork. He felt good, but tired. He relished the feeling of a job well done, and let the glow of solid work fill him for a moment.

Looking up and down the little street, he noted many of his neighbors doing similar work. A few teenagers worked quickly to finish the job. One or two elderly people were working carefully to clear what they could. Jimmy always helped out those who struggled.

A memory came to him clear as the frosty air. Jimmy, eight years old, had been helping his dad shovel the snow. They finished the driveway and walks, had put melting agent on the porch steps and Jimmy headed into the garage.

His father didn’t go with him. The boy asked, “Aren’t you coming inside, Dad?”

“Not yet, son. See, Mrs. Harrison is all on her own this year. We should help her out. She doesn’t have a strong boy yet to clear her snow.” Together they went two houses down and cleared away the snow for the young mother of two toddlers whose husband was deployed with the marines. As Jimmy grew and was given the chore to do on his own, he routinely helped out the neighbors.

Jimmy’s friends were devastated at the loss of their friend. At the funeral held a few days after Jimmy’s death, their little church was full of sad and confused teenagers and their parents. JoAnn remembered those days as a long string of hard hugs and hot tears. The boys were the hardest for her. She received their tear filled hugs, holding on to their bony teenage bodies as she began to realize she would not hold her son again, in this life. She would watch her son’s friends grow taller, begin to drive, to date, and graduate high school while her arms remained empty. There would be no awkward prom photos with a lovely girl or proud graduation photos with Jack and JoAnn holding on to their son. The scrapbook of Jimmy’s life was now finished.

There had been visits, of course. Friends and co-workers came by with a kind word, a plate of brownies, a basket of home grown tomatoes or green beans. Jack and JoAnn received each visit as a kindness. It was a relief because they didn’t talk about Jimmy together very often. Even after eight months the pain was too raw. Having a friend drop by to talk about their son filled the vast silence left by his death.

As the waves of holiday madness ebbed ever closer, the house became even quieter. And sadder. Two weeks before Christmas the doorbell rang. It was a group of young people singing carols. The night was dark and cold. The breaths of a dozen singers cheerily mingled in a mist of warmth. They began with a rousing rendition of We Wish You a Merry Christmas. Jack and JoAnn stood awkwardly in their doorway. She had answered the bell but he joined her, one hand on her lower back and the other on the door frame. Both were meant to support. The group of bright-eyed singers did not stay long. As they departed down the sidewalk, Silent Night lingered in their wake for the long faced parents in their quiet little house.

The next evening, snow was falling heavily as they sat quietly pretending to read in the chairs by the fire. The doorbell broke the silence in the house, and they looked at each other. “I don’t know if I can take another set of carolers.” JoAnn sighed as Jack rose to answer the door.

Five boys stood awkwardly on the front step for a moment before one of them cleared his throat and bravely said, “We were thinking about Jimmy…” He paused and glanced at his friends. “Could we come in, and maybe just talk for awhile?”

Jack felt the pressure of tears in his throat as he noted new height and the shadow of a beard. He nodded and stepped back from the door. The boys filed into the little house. JoAnn looked at Jack for an explanation. “They want to talk, about Jimmy.”

“Well, of course you do.” She greeted each boy by name, and they all sat. She, also, noted that time had not stood still. The boys were taller and more confident. Nearly all had turned sixteen this past year.

“So, we were talking about last year when we all went sledding at the park by the elementary school. Jimmy was so happy that day,” one blond haired boy began.

Jack said, “That was in late January, wasn’t it? Just before the basketball playoffs.”
“Yeah, that’s right. We only got to the semi’s last year, but we will be better this year.”
The chatter flowed from the boys to the parents. She made hot chocolate and they drank it by

the fire. Jack asked questions about this year’s basketball team, school, and their families.
After an hour, the boys said goodbye with hugs for JoAnn, and firm handshakes for Jack. As

they filed out the door Jack asked, “Boys, would you mind coming by this Saturday to help me put up the Christmas lights? JoAnn will make sandwiches and cookies.”

They looked at each other and back at Jack, then agreed with eager smiles.

“See you at 10 on Saturday. And, boys, thank you.”

JoAnn and Jack stood on the porch in the frigid night watching the lanky young men pile into the car. Her arm was around his waist, his arm rested across her shoulders. Snow fell softly on neatly shoveled sidewalks in the twinkle of Christmas lights.

It was a start.


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Change of scene

 Today, I am writing at the library in downtown Oklahoma City. It was my son’s idea. He is an avid writer, who wanted a change of scene. Our downtown library is a lovely building. It is full of clean summer sunlight without the heat of outdoors. Whoever designed the building created glass which only allows in cool comforting light in soothing blue tones. The ceiling is a giant skylight. Walls are nearly all glass on the north, east, and west sides. Rooms of various sizes line the walls. Opaque partitions lie perpendicular to the outside walls while light streams through glass panels parallel to the outside walls letting in more light. The rooms vary in size from small study cubicles to a large room designated “quiet reading space” in which comfortable chairs combine with large golden wood conference tables to invite readers to focus.

We are not in a room, but seated at a luxuriously large conference table kindly fitted with power ports. Wifi streams freely and fast to all patrons and their various devices. There is a busy hush to the open space on the second floor. Each floor is open to the other four floors.

The downstairs has a roomy children’s section, several service desks, fiction, teen area, a large atrium with a grand piano, and dozens of small tables and chairs, and some offices hidden behind opaque walls.

The second floor is slightly smaller than the first. The space above the atrium is open to the fourth floor letting in loads of cool light. I wonder what it is like in here when the piano is in use. There are a large number of tables with computers, some are for library catalog searches while others are for use by patrons who need general computer access including the web.

The second floor is non-fiction. One whole section is for materials related to the Holocaust against the Jewish people by the German Nazis during the second world war. Along the south wall is a set of three microfiche/microfilm readers. This is very exciting. I had no idea they were still in use. I wonder what kind of films they still keep in this format.

Sitting here working, the physical environment fades away into the busy hush of people going about their business. I hear the soft sound of a hard working janitor using a straw broom to sweep off the texture tile stairs. I don’t know if that is a way of reducing noise or the best way to clean, but her rhythmic sweeping is soothing.

For some visitor information–


Arts District Parking Garage Main & Colcord

Arts District Parking Garage Main & Colcord

http://parkingokc.com/arts-district Bring your parking ticket from this garage to the front desk of the downtown library for a $1 off voucher.



On our short walk from the Arts District Garage to the Downtown Library, we saw this tiny structure which reminded us of a children’s book, The Little House by Virginia Lee Burton.tlh

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June Bookshelf

I read science fiction in June–

One Second After by William Forstchen

The Three Body Problem by Cixin Liu and Ken Liu

The Crystal Deception by Doug J. Cooper

Eye of the World, The Wheel of Time series, book #1 by Robert Jordan


And also these books–

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

A New Hope by Robyn Carr

The New Black, Edited by Richard Thomas is an anthology of neo-noir short stories.

I began taking:  Masterclass, James Patterson Teaches Writing

Notable in my reading life is that I have begun aggressively using the public library as a source for ebooks and audio books as well as actual paper books. Their digital two week check out policy pushes me to read faster, and more efficiently. Also, I found that I treasure each of the 14 days I have to complete a book if I have been waiting in the queue for some time. The Eye of the World is a long lovely read, which I had to work hard to finish in the allotted time. It was worth it.

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Soundtrack of my life

I cannot listen to music while writing a first draft or world building. But today, I am in editor-mode working on my upcoming collection of short stories. What do I need for a day full of tedious editing?

  • Background music to keep me focused.
  • Tons of coffee.
  • My sweet dog.
  • The internet.

A collection of singer/songwriter music is playing now-Stan Rogers, Paul Simon, Sting, Mumford and Sons, Florence and the Machine, The Police, and Fleet Foxes fill my writing studio with soothing music.

Now, back to the Red Pen–


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Mom life is full of wonders!

Thank you Scott Dannemiller! You said what we all need to hear in this lovely blog post, “To the Moms: Just Stop It”.

Dannemiller shines a spotlight on the culture of moms who work hard to outdo one another. I have been a full time mom for 21 years, and have been on that crazy train many times. I recall a few pivotal conversations with other moms, during which we challenged one another to “dial it back.” A few times, we actually did dial it back.

I do not go to work outside the home. I have always considered parenting my job. I have, at times, longed for a job with the chance of promotion, paychecks, lunch breaks, peers, and vacation days. I chose, instead, to apply my job skills to being a parent. That is my chance to teach my three kids that doing a job right is not always easy, but always important. I have had the joy of parenting alongside a variety of intelligent, interesting, and fiercely ambitious women over the past two decades. We all want what is best for our kids. I am grateful for the fellow mothers who share my journey. We challenge and affirm one another.

I have tried crafty mom things over the years including wood burning, quilting, knitting, crochet, weaving mats from plastic bags, ceramic painting. I have never excelled at any of these things. I do not get a huge thrill from crafting, for its own sake. I need to be taken by the hand, given the idea, taught the skills, and helped to finish. I learned to bead delicate bracelets on a loom because it was a Camp Fire activity. It was fun and interesting. I still have the loom and a bunch of tiny beads and one really lovely bracelet, which I wove myself. I was all in for helping some kiddos learn to knit, but I still can’t purl.

One of the most amazing aspects of my decades a mom was having the opportunity to embrace new things. I learned all about cross country running. I’ll never be a runner, but I am more fit now than I used to be. And I am a big fan of runners. I embraced baseball–managed the team, kept score, and loved watching the boys play ball. Now that we don’t play anymore, I really miss baseball. It is soccer that keeps me busy now. I may never understand the offsides rule, but I love watching my son play soccer.

The birthday parties could fill a book. I have attended, hosted, and heard about some legendary birthday parties.

As I transition from full time mom to full time writer this spring, I find that I am giving mom life a lot of reflection time. Dannemiller, I hear what you are saying. Moms do sometimes go over the top, to the deep frustration of other parents. I have done it multiple times. For some of us, parenthood is our job. There are moments in our lives that we just need to go over the top–print custom stickers, make a personal gift, give a really fabulous party. Maybe it is all about the mom, perhaps it was all about me, sometimes.

I did the math during my son’s high school graduation. It took almost 7,000 days to reach this point in his life. 7,000 days for which I was present at nearly every single one. I have three kids ages 21, 19, and 14. For all the days of their childhoods in my home, I have either been present or organized for them to be: in a place of safety, well fed, cared for, and accepted.

Calculating that my two older kids were at home for roughly 19 and 18 years plus the younger one at 14.75 years (and counting): I have spent 18,524 cumulative days (so far) of breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks, schedules, tucking in, waking up, hugs, discipline, routine, and paying attention. The job is never done, it just starts all over again at the next meal.

Scott, you are right. I am enough. My presence has been and always will be enough. And I am beyond grateful that some days I get to shine, just a little bit.


Update– apparently, Scott Dannemiller received some ugly responses to his original post, about which I wrote this post. I am so sorry to hear that.

You can read his To the Moms–My Apologies

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