Never Forget.

No one is immune to heartache, and we have surely all heard the old adage, “time heals all wounds.” It is one of those sayings people, often those we don’t know well, use as means of comfort in a time of loss or despair when they don’t necessarily know what else to say.

But in that time of mourning, such sentiments, though well-intended, can seem callous to the sufferer, at least as far as I have experienced. While I have always managed to utter a polite, quiet “thank you” to such empty words, inside, my heart has screamed, How can you know? How will I go on? How will life ever be the same?

Somehow, though, they do know because we do go on. And, while life may never be the same (how could it be?), it continues, and we manage to continue with it, rejoicing in the good days, surviving the bad days, and living all days in between.

Today marks the twelfth anniversary of a day when my heart broke into a thousand pieces. I’d experienced heartache before through the deaths of loved ones, but even those experiences paled in comparison to the way September 11, 2001, affected me (and, I’m sure, many others like me as well).

That day, where I was, and how I felt will forever be seared into my memories, etched upon my heart.

It was my second year of college, and I was taking a walking class at eight o’clock in the morning. The local radio station was in the habit of sending its interns on wild adventures and crazy pranks, so when I got back in my car to head over to my second class of the day, I disregarded the intern who was reporting on something about a plane and a building. She sounded, for lack of a better word, distracted—and I figured the DJs were having fun at her expense. I even remember thinking initially that a plane flying into a building was a really distasteful topic.

But in the time it took me to get from the rec center to campus, I realized what I was hearing was no prank. I looked to the beautiful blue sky above me as I walked from my car to the building, watched the wispy clouds floating on the breeze, having really no idea the magnitude of what had happened. While many professors were dismissing class, my prof thought it important that we watch, as a class, as the news unfolded on the small television mounted at the front of the room. There was no collective sigh or grunt of protest in response. From the moment we took our seats, we were glued to the images and scrolling words flashing across the screen. And all I can remember is clutching my books to my chest and staring ahead in a sort of stupor as the towers burned and crumbled on live TV.

On my way home from school, a good friend from high school—one I no longer regularly saw—passed me on the road and followed me home. I remember being distracted, trying to talk to her and wanting to relinquish all responsibility and be sucked in by whichever channel the television landed on as they were all broadcasting some form of coverage of the attacks.

The atmosphere at work was so different from school or home. Anxiousness and urgency dominated the newsroom at the paper where I worked as the reporters and copy desk scrambled with the EXTRA they were running. My coworker and I were pulled between the televisions, the scanner, and the chatter around us. Excitement is the wrong word to describe the buzz that the liveliness of the newsroom created. It left no time to be sad, no time for the onset of the depression that would follow.

I shed many tears in the weeks and months that followed that day. No, I didn’t know any of the innocent who died in the attacks; I didn’t know any of the first responders who gave their lives trying to save others. But I don’t think I had to know them personally to know the very real pain of their tragic deaths. I was young and naïve, trying to decide what I wanted to do with my life, and this incredible loss made me feel so exposed and vulnerable. 

Twelve years have passed and the details of that day are still so vivid in my mind. I am fairly certain they are vivid in the minds of anyone who experienced, either first hand or at a distance, that terror and its aftermath.

But, as a result of that day, something beautiful, too, emerged. America experienced a renewed sense of identity. People stood together—despite their race or religion or political views. They offered what they could: supplies, time, money, blood, prayer. This beautifully diverse nation stood as one. And it took a great long while for that to fade.

Unfortunately, though, it seems it has faded. Fewer proudly display the red, white, and blue, even on days like today—when it seems most appropriate. We bicker and argue over petty details instead of working together toward a common goal. We complain about the need for change but do little to change anything at all. And, above all, we focus too much on ourselves and too little on one another.

I am grateful that my children did not have to experience September 11, 2001. It is often hard for me to realize that many of the students I teach today didn’t experience it either. So they stare at me with glossed over looks when I talk about it, when I remind them to honor those who have fallen and those who serve to protect them, on days like today and everyday—and I wonder if they will ever understand how important this day and the people who sacrifice all to protect this country truly are. I wonder if they will ever know an America like the one I experienced in the weeks and months that followed that September morning when the people of this great nation came together in the face of tragedy with something powerful to prove. 

I’ll never forget being parked on the side of the road, waiting for the 4^th of July fireworks display just a few months shy of the one year anniversary. Cars and trucks lined the roads and families popped little firecrackers in the open street. Everyone’s radios were tuned to the same station as the music was planned to accompany the show. And then Toby Keith’s southern drawl belted from the speakers, and men and women everywhere leaned into their cars to crank the volume. Someone hollered “hell yeah” and another echoed with applause until it seemed everyone along that road was singing what had become America’s anthem of resilience. And my heart, which had been shattered a year earlier, seemed almost whole again as it swelled with pride.

It was a powerful moment, representative of America, and an indication that time does, in many ways, heal or at least lessen the pain.

Lil A's Big Day!

I was scrolling through the notes on my iPhone the other day... I often wake up in the middle of the night, characters having told me crazy stories or worked out kinks in their plot lines in my dreams, and type a few notes out on my phone... when I saw a note, dated exactly a year ago yesterday. It read:

10:55

11:11

11:26

11:41

These are numbers, times more specifically, I'll never forget. They were the first of what would become numerous, rather painful announcements that my little Abree was ready to make her grand debut.

That morning, I'd had a feeling that my little one was on her way. To begin, this was the end of the only two weeks of the entire year Dr. Horth, my OBGYN, had taken off, meaning someone else would have to deliver me. Madagascar 3 had just come out in theaters, and Aleigh could barely contain herself, so we were going on our last (for a while anyway) just Mommy and Aleigh date. And I felt unusually energetic and light, despite my lack of appetite, for being only four days from my official due date. All the signs were pointing to labor starting soon.

My bags were packed, my mom knew to anticipate a call, and I was ready. Except for one tiny detail.

I had always known I would write for my children. I would write them stories, I would write them letters, I would write them songs. I write. That's what I do... and one's children are the most powerful muse. So I decided when Aleigh was still just a peanut that I would write my babies a special letter, one per year, on their birthdays. These letters would encompass that year in their lives, how they'd grown and changed, what they'd learned (and what I had learned), and how very much they mean to me. And I'd keep them in a hardback journal until they were older, and, then, at some milestone or special occasion, I'd give these bound letters to them as a gift -- a little bit of me and a little bit of them wrapped up in my handwritten thoughts.

So, that morning around two, when my contractions were now eight minutes apart, I sat with a blank sheet of paper as I tried to write Abree's birthday letter. But the harder I tried, the more pronounced my intense writer's block became. 

With Aleigh, I poured all the fears and uncertainties a first time mommy has into her letter. I told her I wished I could always protect her the way a mother can protect her unborn child; I told her I was scared that I wouldn't be the best mommy in the world but that I'd certainly try; I told her that, above all, she would never go even a second without knowing how much I love her. As beautiful as it was, it seemed that everything I wrote was driven by the unknown.

But, with Abree, my feelings were so different. Of course, I still wanted to protect her; of course, she would know how I loved her, but I'd been shown a completely different way to look at the world now. Aleigh helped me see wonder and joy, innocence and beauty, like I'd never seen them before. And I wanted that for Abree. I wanted to hear her giggle for the first time as she watched her sister do something amazing; I wanted to see her face light up when she discovered something new; I wanted to be on the receiving end of those chubby, wobbly, little legs as they tottered through their first steps. I didn't fear the unknown anymore. I looked forward to all that little Abree would bring to our lives. But expressing that adequately was proving impossible!

We left for the hospital that morning around four, my contractions three minutes apart and a sheet of paper with only the date, Abree's name, and the words "We have been waiting our whole lives for you" scrawled across the top still sitting on the computer desk. 

I was able to finish the letter eventually, and, oddly enough, its tone is fitting to Abree's personality. It's sweet and happy, uplifting and even a little daring -- all characteristics of my little love. 

Happy first birthday, sweet baby girl! <3

That Moment... Straight out of a Movie

My oldest gives the greatest morning hugs.

my bug, feeling much better

I think she learned to hug from her Uncle Mike, whose hugs are so heartfelt and so meaningful, I never knew what I was missing in a hug until I experienced one of his. His hugs are seriously one of my favorite parts about visiting Ohio.

My oldest inherited his ability to put every emotion she's feeling right at that moment into her hug. She wraps her arms around my neck, wraps her legs around my waist, and hugs with all her might. And I hope that never changes.

That hug is usually what greets me when she gets up in the mornings. Usually.

But yesterday morning, when my alarm went off an hour before the girls regularly get up, I didn't get up with it. The baby is teething, which has disrupted both her and my sleep schedule. And, as my phone buzzed to remind me it was time to start my day, I thought... just ten or so more minutes won't hurt anything.

I was holding the baby in the crook of my left arm, and, with the sound of my alarm, Aleigh snuggled over into my right. It was a great place to be for just a few more minutes of sleep.  

I am not sure if I fell back asleep or was just in that state between wake and sleep where one is semi-aware of sounds, but it couldn't have been ten minutes and I heard the dog hacking. This is normal, of course. Our golden retriever hacks every other day, usually in the early morning hours. Since her toddler months, she has eaten undigestible plastics, grass/weeds, underwear. This is just what Chloe does.

But, yesterday morning, the sound was too close for comfort. She was somewhere very near me about to throw up. 

And, then, I felt something no one wants to feel in the wee hours of the morning when I haven't even had any coffee yet, when both my arms are occupied with little ones, when I'm the only adult in the house. I felt a splatter.

It was a splatter like you've probably seen numerous times before... when, after painting and cleaning the brush, you shake it to remove the water. Large droplets fall to the ground. Or, in this case, across mine and the baby's faces. 

It only took me a second to realize it wasn't Chloe who was hacking. For, just to my right, Aleigh was on her knees, her little lips pressed tightly together... the source of the sputtering splatter.

"Can you get to the bathroom, baby?" I asked her, my supermommy resilience helping me forget I had throw up splattered in large blobs across my face (as did the baby, who remained peacefully snoozing). 

"I need you to carry m--" was all she got out before what she'd been trying to hold back arrived with force, right into my extended hand. 

In hindsight, this moment made me think of Parenthood and the scene where Steve Martin's character asks his daughter, "Do you feel like you want to throw up?"And she quickly replies, "okay," and then pukes. 

That's one of those scenes kids and adults alike quote for weeks, months, even years after seeing the film because it is funny.

But I wasn't in that mindset when it happened. A number of questions went through my head... many of which are humorous now, though they were very serious at the time: 

Why couldn't this happen on a Saturday when I had an extra set of hands to help? What did the child eat that, in this dim light, makes it look like she's vomiting blood? Ohmygosh... is that blood? What am I going to do with the sleeping, puked on baby and the fistful of sickness in my other hand? Will this come of out of my sheets? And, perhaps most importantly, how am I going to get out of bed without some help?

I'm still not sure what she ate or why throw up happens on Thursdays, not Saturdays. Thank goodness, there was no blood involved. Little Abree, who probably would have woke long before I wanted her to any other day, was a little irritated her sleep was interrupted as I rolled awkwardly to sitting position. It wasn't easy and the sheets probably suffered the most through the entire ordeal, but I made it out of bed without any assistance... yet another supermommy feat. And, yes, the sheets did come clean.

And, after the throw up was all washed away and the sheets were spinning in the washer, after both my sweets had early morning baths and I at least washed my face, I eventually got my hug. 

It was big and powerful, like usual, and said perhaps everything she wanted to say about our eventful morning, even if she wasn't sure how to say it.

Still Learning from Dr. Seuss

In 1960, Dr. Seuss wrote, “Children's reading and children's thinking are the rock-bottom base upon which this country will rise. Or not rise. In these days of tension and confusion, writers are beginning to realize that books for children have a greater potential for good or evil than any other form of literature on earth” (Philip Nel's Dr. Seuss Bio).

And how relevant those words still are, fifty years later!

Dr. Seuss has always been rather influential in my life. I learned to read with Dr. Seuss, specifically Green Eggs and Ham and The Cat in the Hat. When I turned seven, I received the Dr. Seuss book A Book about Me; it is a book I still have (and Aleigh has one waiting for her now, too, as will Abree when she is old enough). At my junior high graduation, our principal read Oh, The Places You’ll Go! And a dear friend gave me a copy of the same book when I graduated college.

Dr. Seuss was a staple growing up in my house, and his books have found their place in my children’s hearts as well—for great reason: Dr. Seuss presents the most important life lessons in the simplest of terms.

Not a fan of the food on your plate? Try it and you may just love it, Green Eggs and Ham encourages.

Feeling insignificant and forgotten? Horton Hears a Who reminds, “a person’s a person, no matter how small.”

Uncertain about your path because you are the only one on it? Oh, the Places You’ll Go! reassures, “Alone is something you’ll be quite a lot.” And that’s okay.

Bored on a rainy day? The Cat in the Hat reminds that all you need is a little imagination.

In honor of Dr. Seuss’s birthday and the fact that he will continue to inspire, teach, and encourage through the legacy he left, here are just a few of my many favorites:

“The more that you read, the more things you will know.

The more that you learn, the more places you'll go.”

– I Can Read with My Eyes Shut!

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot,

Nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”

– The Lorax

“Oh the thinks you can think up if only you try!”

– Oh, The Thinks You Can Think!

“You have brains in your head, you have feet in your shoes.

You can steer yourself in any direction you choose.”

– Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

"Maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store.

Maybe Christmas perhaps means a little bit more."

– How the Grinch Stole Christmas

What are your favorite Seuss quotes or books? How do these simple yet powerful children’s books continue to inspire you and your families?

"...And babies don't keep"

I was a weird kid.

Like most children, I didn't want to grow up. But I say weird because, while most kids suffer from Peter Pan and the lost boys-type symptoms and an understandable fear of trading fun and games for endless responsibility, I feared growing up for a different reason: I was afraid the next day, month, year would never be able to measure up to how perfect life was in the moment I was living.

That's not to say life was perfect by any means. But, to the little worrier I was, the next day could bring something horrible! A catastrophe! Or it could simply bring change, which, be it little or big, is a hard adjustment for any kid.

I'm reminded of this younger version of myself every time I look at my little ones, but particularly Aleigh and particularly on nights like last night.

The only time I can find to clean house is after the kiddos are asleep, and I was growing rather tired and impatient with Aleigh. She was struggling with bedtime after waking her sister three times in less than an hour, reading countless books (many twice), and asking for a piece of bread as a nighttime snack. After I explained to her as nicely as possible how frustrating it was when she wakes the baby, she told me she was sorry. She just wanted to stay up with me. I told her when she was older there would be plenty of time for staying up late with mama.

This brought on the tears.

"I don't want to get older," she cried. "I like me just like I am. I don't want to grow up."

A montage of memories flashed through my mind as I looked into those massive, tear-filled eyes: I saw her in my arms, a bright red little bundle, just after delivery; then she was grinning and rolling over; and then she was saying her first words and tottering her first steps. I saw the curious infant transition into independent toddler and then into personality-filled little girl, all in a few seconds, and I remember how strong the urge has always been to preserve those moments. To freeze time and hold her tighter and longer, knowing that she will never be three days, three months, three years old again. 

Tears welled in my own eyes as I so badly wanted to tell her that I don't want her to grow up either. I want her to stay my baby, my innocent little girl with wonder-filled eyes who sees the good and beauty in the world and in others, forever. But, instead, I quickly dried my eyes and reminded her of all she'd miss if she stayed three and a half.

"You'd miss blowing out four candles on your birthday cake," I told her. "And you'd miss that Disney cruise Daddy promised. You'd miss feeling sand between your toes and being scared to death by how very big the ocean really is. You'd miss your first day of school and your first sleepover, your first visit from the tooth fairy and your first baseball game."

It wasn't long before she seemed satisfied that growing up wasn't all that bad, after all. And, with a sleep grin, because now it was well past her bedtime, she told me to go finish my "chores" but to hurry back so we could read one more Aleigh story before her eyes got tired.

An hour earlier, I would have probably taken the opportunity, lost in the need-tos and the have-tos, hoping she'd fall asleep on her own. But not after our very grown up conversation. Not after my little bug reminded me that she won't always be so little.

"I think I'll stay here with you and read another book, if that's okay," I told her.

"Okay, Mama." She smiled excitedly, turning quickly to dig through the stack of books we had already read in search of her favorite. Our very grown up conversation had already left her thoughts, her focus on whether or not we should read "Goldilocks and the Three Bears"or "Madeline" for the third time.

But it hadn't left mine. For I love my little one the way she is right now, too, and I know that will not last. 

The dust and dog hair, the dirty dishes and unfolded laundry... my chores will wait for me, I'm certain, but my little bug will never be three and a half again.

Overcoming the Facebook Addiction

An update: My enabling friends talked me into keeping my Facebook account activated and becoming better at controlling my addiction. Thanks, guys!

“That’s an addiction,” my husband announced the other night as he walked passed me, baby tightly swaddled and in my arms and phone in my free hand. I was scrolling through Facebook, which I’d already done twice in the past ten minutes.

But it is almost impossible to grade papers one-handed.

And I couldn’t find Pride and Prejudice, so I could watch it the thousandth time.

And I was bored.

So I felt justified in indulging in my guilty pleasure that is Facebook. But… well… once I started to think about it, I realized that it isn’t really that much of a pleasure, and sometimes I did feel guilty about it.

My hubby gave up Facebook a few days ago and said he didn’t realize how addicting it truly was until he quit logging in. And I quickly realized the entire deactivation process is like trying to get away from something you know is not good for you. If you’ve ever deactivated (notice I said deactivated and not deleted) your account, you know what I mean. When you click on the deactivate link, Facebook tries to guilt you into staying by flashing pictures of your closest friends with a little note that says, “So-and-So will miss you!” For my hubby, my profile picture was the first to pop up. And when you find the courage to go ahead and click anyway, you still aren’t out of the woods because then Facebook sends you occasional email reminders that all you have to do to come back to the digital world in all its self-righteous splendor is log back in.

I have to admit, I spend entirely too much time scrolling through my news feed, reading memes people post and updates from people I haven’t actually talked to in person in years. I wonder what I would be doing otherwise while I rock the baby to sleep. Would I write? Would I grade? Would I just relax…? (That last one is hilarious!)

Unlike my husband, though, I can’t say I didn’t know how addicting it is or how much time I waste doing it. I gave it up a few semesters back when my students and I were reading Emerson and Thoreau in American lit. The class discussions that followed made me really examine how I spent my time and why, when I have a clearly defined dream of writing a Young Adult series and seeing it published, I waste a ridiculous amount of my time on Facebook.

So, with Emerson and Thoreau on my side, I told the Facebook world farewell and enjoyed the utter liberation that came with that goodbye. Did I miss events? Yes. Did I miss the latest photos and updates from friends and acquaintances and other random people who I’m “friends” with in cyberspace? Yes. Did I get the “hey-did-you-see… oh, wait - you aren’t on Facebook anymore” comments from the friends I do regularly interact with outside of the virtual world? Yes.

But with all that I missed, I gained a great deal, too. I regained that time I would waste scrolling, always scrolling… even if it was just five or ten minutes here or there. I dedicated that time to writing instead and was able to finish the first draft of my first book! I also regained a sense of anonymity. I didn’t know what was going on in people’s lives 24/7, and they didn’t know what was going on in mine. I even ran into a friend shortly after the baby was born who said, “I didn’t even know you were pregnant!” All thanks to my deactivated Facebook account.

More important than time and anonymity, though, I regained both independence and self-worth. I don’t know that many of us realize how dependent we become on technology, including social media sites like Facebook. When it wasn’t there for me to use anymore, I found something else to do… something more uplifting and productive. No joke. Facebook can be a serious downer, can’t it?

I stayed away for six whole months, deciding to come back only after my youngest daughter was born. I justified the decision to return with her birth, realizing there were family and friends in far away places that may never see my child if I didn’t share mobile uploads of her chubby cheeks.

Now, eight months later, I find myself reconsidering that decision.

Facebook has its uses, for sure. We organized our ten year high school reunion and were able to reach most of our classmates via Facebook, for instance. I’ve contacted students via Facebook when I couldn’t reach them any other way. And I’ve shared photos of my little bugs with friends from Vegas and family in Cincinnati and Chicago.

But, in so many ways, if we allow it to, it consumes entirely too much of us without us even realizing it.

So I think, as I write this, I’ve decided to give up my Facebook account once again and join those who live in disconnected, ignorant bliss. And I think I’m really excited about it…

After all, my friends and my pictures will all still be there if I ever need to satisfy a craving for social networking, right? All I have to do is log back in.

"A funny thing to promise..."

On Friday morning, I was totally consumed in my little world. I had been up since five, trying to get all my finals graded, and I didn't bother to turn on the television before I took the girls to town for our Christmas portrait appointment. We were still running errands when my husband sent me a text about another school shooting.

I didn't immediately understand what had happened. I certainly didn't comprehend that children - innocent six and seven year olds - were the targeted victims.

When I finally was able to read one of the reports for myself, I didn't believe it. The senselessness of it all reminded me of the shock I initially experienced after 9/11. On that September day, I sat in front of the television, struggling with the enormity of what had happened as it slowly sank in. 

All Friday evening and into Saturday, numerous Facebook friends were posting about the senselessness; they were sending prayers to the families; they were debating gun control and "liking" pages in memory of the victims; they were commenting about their own children and how they would hold them a little tighter and a little longer. I had to close the browser and walk away. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to think about it... because every time it entered my mind, my oldest baby's big, innocent blue eyes and her sweet face appeared along side it. 

When my Aleigh was born, my entire life changed in the most beautiful, wonderful ways possible. Most parents understand what I mean: I no longer breathed for myself; I breathed for her. And when Abree joined our family, I was amazed to find that my heart could feel fuller and I could be more complete than I already was. I wrapped them both in the protective, safe environment my husband and I have built, and I pushed the gazillion fears every mother has for her children to the back of my mind. I could protect them now, and I would wait to worry about all that was out of my control when they were older. 

But what I didn't realize (or, perhaps, just chose not to think about) is no matter how many precautions we take as parents, we can't keep them safe from everything. No matter how hard we try. 

In the past year alone, colleges, places of worship, shopping centers, and now elementary schools have become targets for the sick and unstable to unleash their anger and frustration before branding their names in the mass murderers column of American history. 

And how do I protect my children from that? Do I avoid church because a religious fanatic whose beliefs differ from mine may choose the place of worship I've chosen to make himself a martyr? Do I keep them away from shopping centers, especially crowded ones, for fear of disgruntled ex-employees?  Do I homeschool my children because not even elementary schools are safe anymore? 

I've cried for those precious, innocent children who will never experience so much this life has to offer. I've cried for the unsuspecting parents who received the most fearful news. I've cried for those who survived but had the wonder of child innocence stripped from them. I've cried for the teachers, aides, principal who made the ultimate sacrifice to protect the children to whom, as teachers, they had dedicated themselves. 

I sometimes wonder what kind of world I have brought my babies into. How do you explain the cruelness and sadness, the hurt and pain that is an inevitable part of the human existence to them? And, inevitably, we all will have to, much sooner than we ever imagined we would.

I want to protect my babies from this cruel world. I want their beautiful smiles to always shine and the tears they shed to be few. I want them to never experience loss, to not have to struggle with understanding and accepting death. But I know how very unrealistic and naive such wants are.

My mother-in-law loves Disney Pixar's Finding Nemo, and we watched it again and again the last time she visited. We were right at the part where Dory and Marlin are in the whale's mouth, when she said to my husband and me, "this is a very important part for mommies and daddies to understand." My husband laughed at his mother, but I adore both her life lessons and Disney for many of the beautiful lessons its characters teach. So I listened. Really listened. 

Marlin tells Dory, "I promised I'd never let anything happen to him." And Dory says, "Hmm. That's a funny thing to promise. [. . .] you can't never let anything happen to him. Then, nothing would ever happen to him." 

So, as hard as it is for me to admit, I have to let them go into this world and hope I have taught them well enough. I have to let them experience life. I have to let them make their own mistakes and learn and grow and, with hope, do their part to make this world better. 

For now, I get to continue to live in my somewhat naive, sheltered world and shower them with love. I get to hold them, hug them, and kiss them. I get to do everything in my power to pad that layer of protection that is a parent's love, that invisible bodysuit parents make just a little thicker every time they encourage or praise or love their little ones.

And I'll continue to hope that everything I've taught them and all the love I've given them is enough to protect them from all the madness, nonsense, and destruction possible in this world, even if I know it's no guarantee - because I think that's part of my responsibility to them as their mother: to teach them that the sadness and cruelty that will seem so dominant when they get older isn't and shouldn't be the norm. 

There is still so much that is beautiful, inspiring, and good in this world.