Running ladies and reaching out

Several times a week, for at least the past six months, the boys and I drive past a woman we’ve taken to calling “The Running Lady.” In cold weather or warm, rain or shine, she runs. Her outfits are coordinated and weather appropriate, and always she wears a backpack.

Perhaps it’s a Camelbak, carrying water so she stays hydrated. Maybe it’s a standard pack that carries first aid supplies, her phone and keys, or sweat towels. It could even be a stamina-enhancing device; run with weight, train harder.

She is always red-cheeked. Often, she looks tired, as if her exertions are just that: exertions. Her shape is not perfect. Her runs don’t look easy. I admire her perseverance.

I have come to count on The Running Lady, as a basic, trustworthy symbol of dependability. I appreciate her commitment, I enjoy seeing her; it’s as if we are friends, but she just doesn’t know it. In a very basic way, I rely on her. I would like to meet her some day. The boys and I have discussed writing her a card of appreciation or admiration, but then we decided that would probably be weird.

I am grateful for rocks like The Running Lady. Like my boys waking up between 6 and 6:30 each morning and my husband coming home between 7:30 and 8 each night. My cat nipping at my ankles if I’ve not remembered to refill his bowl of kibble. February being the suckiest month of the year, each and every year.

I am grateful that my favorite recipe for bread always rises, that Nanny’s cranberry sauce makes everyone smile. I’m grateful that my sons are healthy and bright, that my car starts each morning, that I love my parents and sister and my in-laws too, that the Soda Stream was invented.

I am grateful for good food and wine, for writing, for my friends. I give thanks for my sons’ school and for the endless beauty that is everywhere, if only we open our eyes and look. For strong boxes and packing tape, shredders and bubble wrap.

These rocks constitute the foundation on which I root my life, my future, my sense of the world and my place in it. And yet I know that in many ways, those rocks are illusions. Tenuous, they could slip at any moment. An aggressive tide could wash in and sweep a cornerstone away.

Life is never sure, never fully in control, never wholly known, no matter how much we wish it so. That truth is a tough pill to swallow, but as we grow older, it’s worth remembering that even concrete and diamonds crumble under the right pressure.

People die too soon, by their own hands or those of others. I’ve lost acquaintances to both this month. This month. Goodbyes to homes, pets, finances, friends and family are forced upon people in our midst all.the.time. To pretend otherwise, to ignore the truth of those losses, weakens the foundation on which we all live; it debases the communities we could and can, do and need to share.

I am grateful for the people in my life who are there for me regardless of how I present myself. Who pick up the phone to my glee or tears or wonder and say, “Bring it on. I’m here.” I’m grateful for all the friends who let me be that ear to them.

Not everyone has that, or thinks they do, and that is a shame of epic proportion. Let people know you love or value them, for every reason or none at all. Reach out, show compassion, write the note, look around. Even a stranger might welcome an admirer or friend.

*This post is in response to last week's Finish the Sentence Friday prompt, "I am grateful for...", hosts for which were Kristi of Finding Ninee and Lizzi of Considerings.

Diary of a move, 6: A sick child in the mix, aka How Odd Squad makes a day go by, and Why emojis and hashtags are awesome

Alright y'all. Last night, I went to the State of the School being hosted by the head of school and the Parents Association. It constituted the social highlight of my past two weeks if you don't count my visit to the 2nd District police station or the meeting with various folks associated with readying my home for the wilds of the DC market. 

I came home so happy to watch Downton with T and then dive into bed. The snow days and packing and sick Ol and a shocking trip to the gym had conspired to make me seriously exhausted, and eager beaver is a vast understatement when considering just how to describe my mindset about bedtime last night.

Surely you know where this is headed. Naturally it involves a profound lack sleep, holding my darling boy as he booted responsibly into the toilet, cuddling his feverish-with-chills body until he was able to sleep, Percy barking and then peeing, Nutmeg mewing and then puking, and finally, finding an insane looking Jack pretending to do math at the kitchen table at 5:55am.

Do not even think I believed his protestations, y'all. I am certain he was not actually attempting to do his homework but rather planning to collect his daily gold ration in Clash of Clans or whatever. #momsalwaysknow

Ol stayed home again today, and I admit that I let him watch approximately nine hours of Odd Squad. His brains are probably oozing from his ears right now as he sleeps. I'm likely to find a brain-crusted pillow tomorrow morning (or, who am I kidding, later tonight when that bitchy fever wakes him) because I just decided to let.it.go. 

My little bug felt like such crap today, and I really did need to paint the powder room and clean the yard so there you have it. He did learn to count by 3s. #winning #momofyear

I admit to being wholly gaga right now. The room is spinning and I've only had one, much-deserved bourbon. I'm telling y'all, February. #suckmonth

As an aside, can we talk about how much I love hashtags and emojis? It's an emphatic love, a wildly enthusiastic, unadulterated joy love. I adore words and long, flowing sentences, and gorgeous language and all that jazz. But sometimes -think cuss words versus their vanilla kin- you just need/want to make.the.point.

Like, if we were to have another snow day tomorrow, I would definitely text my friend, Annie, the revolver or bomb emoji. No words needed. The picture says everything AND makes you laugh.

If my friend, Anne, and I are gossiping about something, we will text each other a simple train emoji (or, let's be honest, about 90 train emojis, including all varieties of them), to symbolize that we are on the bullet train to hell.

If my friend, Jennie, reminds me of the one story that both nearly got us in trouble AND to this day makes us laugh until we cry, we text the tears-down-the-laughing-face emoji. 

And so forth and so on. I mean, just today with my girlfriend, Diara, I used two separate horse emojis and a heart. You cannot say what we meant in three words. Nor should you have to.

I LOVE the freaking emojis, though don't get me started on why there is not a pie emoji. WTF?!

If you cannot tell, I am beyond punchy. I am so damn tired I don't know my name. I best go get the salmon out of the oven and stop eating all the allspice- and cinnamon-roasted butternut squash before T gets home. 

Diary of a move, 5: Uncharted waters

I am approaching this move like the innate and forever student I am. Lists and spreadsheets, folders and a calendar, color-coded stickers and a definite action plan. I am excited and ready and feel like I'm definitely contributing to a smooth relocation process.

And yet I find myself in uncharted territory. These waters are unfamiliar and bumpy; I lost my sea-legs weeks ago. 

For as we draw closer to closing and moving, I struggle to articulate much of anything. My concentration is running at a seriously subpar clip, so much that I put our newspaper on hold this week because really, what's the point?

February is never my friend, even in the best of years. It's a chilly gray speedbump on the road to spring. If it weren't for Valentine's Day, it'd be a total wash of a month; thank goodness for hearts and roses and an excuse to drink pink champagne.

I'm cold, and I'm tired. I'm not sleeping well, and my GI tract is taking the brunt of various stressors. I'm sick of the old, dirty snow (except for the neat melt) and the misshapen foliage that's not weathered the white stuff's weight well. Just after we seemed to get back on track from the many snow days Snowzilla offered us, Ol caught another virus and was home sick today. It's not strep -never is- and my mother meter tells me that he'll be home for at least the next two days.

My sweet boy- he is the most darling, easiest sick child there is. But he has things to learn and friends to see, and I have my own things to do too. And both of us need sleep.

The one who never struggles with sleep.

I have sat down to write these past couple days and looked at the stark white screen and the blinking cursor that so often promise the world. And I have cowered. And frozen. And closed shop.

This is the most unfamiliar -unwelcome!- aspect of this February's chop. To want to write but to feel dry is beyond uncomfortable. It's scary and worrisome. It's as if I've been unwillingly corked, and I don't like it one bit.

I showed up here tonight with no expectations but with a determination to simply start. I don't have a tidy beginning, middle and end for you. I don't have wisdom or insight. I don't even have a laugh to share. 

If you're interested, I can tell you about easy and good chicken shawarma (made tonight) with juices that dribble down your arms. I can tell you, via Jack, that per Chinese tradition, I, born in the year of the dragon, could possibly have been a great politician (wrong), talk show host (wha? maybe.) or artist (possible).

I can tell you that a seriously feverish child will scare the pants off the most sanguine of us and that it's extremely hard to see your spouse stressed to the nines. 

I can tell you that if the Republicans have any sense, neither Donald Trump nor Ted Cruz will get the nomination and that if they don't and Trump or Cruz does, he would lose. I can tell you that's a triumph for this country; the glimmer of hope that hate won't, ultimately, prevail.

I can tell you how to organize pretty much anything, and I can tell you that even when it's uncomfortable, asking for and accepting help really is a beautiful thing. 

Maybe what these rough waters are teaching me is that sometimes, showing up is what counts.

Thank you for being here, with me and in my periodic absences. I can tell you that I'm grateful.