It's a Sign

I believe in signs. I believe if I just wait...something will show me if my direction is correct. There is little in this life of mine that does not surprise me. While others, so cynical, seem surprised by next to nothing, I am constantly surprised, constantly snapped awake by something I was not expecting. Being this way has the mostly lovely moments and a few well, not so lovely moments. I have been called naive, but I do not think I am. I think I am merely avoiding a pit fall of having been on earth a little longer than some. My little surprises allows for miracles, it allows me to believe the best in people even when their worst is all that shows. Last week a little girl, a college student came up to the counter. I had seen her previously and she had been frustrated, angry and upset. Working with money, I get it. It would seem to them as though I held all the cards, but my reality is I have little power over what happens to their financial aid. She looked at me the first time she saw me as if I were the enemy. I assured her the best way I knew how that I was only there to help her. My intent every day is to acknowledge those students, see them in real terms, research the problem and try my level best to solve it, if I can. My heart went out to her. She felt it, but at the time she was still so upset she could only stand in front of me with her face twisted in frustration. I promised to do my best, and I gave her everything I had to give in that moment. It is all I have. As she approached the counter the second time days later, she smiled a sheepish smile. She gingerly approached me as I wore my glasses on my nose to be able to see her face more clearly. "I just wanted to apologize. I know this is not your fault. I had to come here and tell you that I am very sorry if I was mean to you. I know you are helping me." I looked at this girl, barely out of her childhood, "I know. You do not have to apologize, I feel you to my bones. I know you are frustrated. It's money you count on for your future, I get it. I try not to take any of this personally. I know this is not about me. Thank you for coming here." Again she smiled and said, "I just wanted to you to know." I was surprised she came back to apologize, not because she isn't a decent person, and not because I have become so cynical I didn't think she would ever do it, but because I really didn't think she owed me an apology. I didn't take it personally. I knew how frightened she was. I have felt that exact same anxiety wondering how I was going to pay for school. I was surprised because if I have learned anything in my nearly 49 years it is to expect as little as possible, just so I can keep my little surprises. Years ago there were all these little bookmarks with puppies and kitties and whatever small fuzzy they could print and the words read, "Expect nothing and you shall never be disappointed." My first thought was, "that sounds awful". I suppose if I expect nothing then it is true whatever happens, I will not have my anticipation met with disappointment. But I tell you, sometimes it is the anticipation that is the best for me. The reality of the results of what shows up, is what it is, but the waiting, the joyous ideas that come from not knowing, sometimes for me that is what is most fun. That crazy, heart thumping, nervous energy I have right before something happens, is the space where I dream the most. "What if something wonderful happens?" I am not sure why, but whenever I am in that happy place of wonder, there are some who feel the need to pop my balloon and remind that life is crap. I look at every person who does this the same way, as if I am certain they are the ones telling small children Santa does not exist. (He does, I have met him). Most of the time, I like to see where things are headed, but I am willing to wait. Recently, with my life with Michael hanging in the balance, I want answers. I want concrete guarantees that we will be together forever. Of course, no such thing exists in our reality. We only have what information we have garnered and the faith that we will survive this. Friday, I saw something wonderful. We have lived in this house for almost two years, and I had never seen what I saw Friday. I was walking toward the mailbox, as I have a million times before, when a bright yellow object caught my eye. Daffodils had sprung up during our Houston winter, and torrential rain storms. Bright yellow, brilliant orange daffodils were growing where there was once only weeds. We had not planted them. I had seen scraggly looking stalks, but until this year I had never seen any of them bloom. I have spoken to no one about the little miracle in my front yard. My son seeing me happy, seeing me smile and begin to dream again captured it in film. The black and white background is exactly how Michael and I have been feeling as of late. The joyous little flower is our hope for our future, so brightly colored, so wonderfully small, yet strong in the elements that are pounding the poor thing this winter season. Michael and I are in a winter of sorts, but we know we will be alright. Spring is coming. The lessons are being learned as I write this. We are prepared for the worst and still hoping for the best. I asked for a sign. What I got were flowers. I'll take it. I was surprised that anyone was listening.

It's All About Sex, Isn't It?

Cute little devil in the ultra sound picture, right? It's my son, Tom. He's 21 now. I chose to have him. I picked him and he picked me. I used my God given right as a woman and human being to make that choice. I would never make that choice for someone else. I am busy enough with my own life. I am busy enough with my own family, where I do not have the time or energy to make up laws that stifle personal choice. If I had that kind of time, I would paint my bedroom and renovate our bathroom. I thought long and hard about writing this. I had to because I feel the weight of it pressing on me like an anvil on my chest. It would be easier not to write about a political issue. They are sticky and come from a visceral place, so why not just stay out of it? Then I thought about my children. I would walk through fire for my kids. I would gladly take any bullet, be run over, risk myself in every way if I thought for one split second it would save them from harm. I am Catholic. I like being Catholic. I have my issues with religion in general, seeing how wars begin, conflict arises and the danger of absolute power if one thinks it is destined by God. I am not sure how God thinks of religion, but I have a feeling He would not be so happy with what has been done in His name. It was suggested to me by someone who I thought knew better that I should just leave my church if I didn't agree. That smacks of those who threaten to leave the country if the vote doesn't turn out to coincide with their beliefs. Why as a woman, if I do not agree should I leave? Maybe the powers that be should re-think their outdated, bigoted view of women and evolve. One man running for president said sex is for pro-creation only. In that argument birth control should be eliminated, abortion abolished and women relinquish their choice of having sex without getting pregnant. Another Congressional member is holding legislation hostage that protects women from domestic violence. Not since it was introduced in 1994, the year Nicole Simpson was nearly decapitated, has anyone opposed the law that helps keep women safe. The reason for this? He doesn't like gay people. It's a punishment of sorts against what he considers to be the social ruination of this country. One man with money to burn in the presidential campaign made a "joke" about holding an aspirin between a woman's knees as use as birth control. My hope is whoever he is sleeping with does that repeatedly until his soul is crushed and his peep withers and falls off. Oh, snap, just kidding. Every time I look at the news there is another man talking about women's health issues. A committee of five men got together in Congress to discuss such vital and personal issues. Since they have experienced the joy of menstrual cramps, child birth and menopause, we can certainly understand how they were chosen to represent women around the country in deciding exactly how we should be "handled". I will not stop being Catholic because I have different views than my archaic church who stated there were acceptable levels of pedophilia. I will not stop trying to change laws that hurt women. I will not stop running my mouth, as someone put it, to try and get others to see that if they want things to change, then they, too, must change. I see so much of the same mistakes being made with the expectation of different results. My belief is we change with education. I have spent my entire adult life time teaching my children about respect, not in the abstract, but with their person, with their partner, with every single person they come in contact with. I have taught my sons and my daughters that real love does not hurt. Real love, holds you close, protects you from harm, embraces that which is unique to only you. Real love comes from God, a higher evolved place of acceptance, forgiveness and wisdom. It shows patience, kindness, gentleness, compassion for that which we do not understand. I have taught my children if you get pregnant, whether or not you are are male or female, it is no longer about them. That is the Catholic law I have taught. It is our own personal belief system.I would never ask anyone who is not Catholic to believe as we believe. Not everybody is Catholic, so our beliefs would not apply. What we believe is the moment a child is conceived, the life that is created by them should be protected by them. We believe it is our responsibility to take care of those with whom we are a part. It's part of our faith, ideology, doctrine. I would never make it law, because as a Catholic I do not have to. I only have to follow the laws I choose to follow in the Catholic church. God having given free will had established long before I showed up, that every person has the choice to live as they believe. He didn't feel the need to legislate our individual behavior, so neither do I. The words "Big Government" ring my ears these days. What is bigger than forcing a raped women to go to a doctor who then is forced to use a vaginal wand to show her own pregnancy. What is bigger than insisting sex is only for creating life and nothing more? Being menopausal, does that mean I am no longer allowed to enjoy sex as a married woman with the man I am bound to under God? I can no longer have children, so do I now have the right to dictate terms to those who still can, how they should run their sex lives? Now ask me how I feel about a life created out of rape or incest? My daughters, have the right to move through and past an act of violence. My daughters have the free will to take the "After Pill". Hell, my daughters have the right to use birth control and wait until they are emotionally ready to carry a child. It is their life. I do not judge them for their choices because I raised thoughtful, smart and loving individuals. If they choose a path unique to them, it is their right. If they stand up to a church whose only goal with women's rights is to force the perpetuation of the church population, then I will stand with them. Mount Athos was given to Mary, the Virgin Mother, by Jesus. No woman is allowed on the mountain. They are considered a distraction. So while Jesus loved His mother, Mary, a woman, and He would give her one of the most beautiful places on earth, the men of the mountain only see women as a sexual diversion, a source of spiritual distraction as if each were carrying apples in their purse. Paul, a disciple, convinced women that having sex detracted from their relationship with God. The women wanting only to be close to their God, closed up shop and refused to yield to their husbands. The husbands, many powerful leaders, approached Paul and made him retract his statements, so they could once again lay with their wives. Men deciding for women what is spiritually right is not new. Men telling women they must serve them and their whims is not new. Men treating women as if they were second class citizens, not bright enough to make their own decisions, is not new. What feels new to me is that my government is in the dog fight of my church. 98% of Catholic women use some sort of birth control. It doesn't take a brain surgeon to look around mass and see the 1 or 2 children families, to figure out someone had taken preventative measures. I also can not for the life of me figure how out how getting rid of birth control will solve the abortion issue. I am pretty sure (snark) if you stop preventing pregnancy you will result with an increase in unwanted pregnancies. I am not sure how forcing women to have more illegitimate children will solve our welfare crisis when statistics show women and children are the primary users of the programs. My biggest head scratcher is why is this our big issue of the day? Why not let this alone and let women figure it out. Did the unemployment number balance out to 0? Did our debt to China disappear? Has Wall Street purged every problem and I am merely unaware? My church treats women like second class citizens. They have for hundreds if not thousands of years. It's a real problem. Women of the church are trying to make changes. Change will come to our church, because women are getting more frustrated than ever, their patience running thin, their blood boiling at the outdated ideology that puts them at risk, mind, body and soul. It used to be a mother would die to save a child; that is no longer the issue it once was. I was faced with that decision with my last child. The priest told me I must save the child even in the event of my own death. Danny, a lifetime Catholic, looked at me and yelled, "Is he fucking crazy? What about our other kids?" My husband, Danny, made me laugh at one of the toughest things I would face in my lifetime.Before I went in he said to the doc, "Do your job and save them both." She gave him the "What an ass" look. She had already planned on doing exactly that without his command, but I really thought the whole exchange was a little funny. I believed I lived for a reason. I believe part of the reason I am here is to teach our children and tell them how wonderful sex is, how it is given in grace by our God. How when with someone you really love,

you can see God, hence all that calling out His name. I have gone over things that embarrassed my children and myself because it was important for them to know how wonderful life, love and sex are. I taught my kids their bodies are walking miracles with wondrous capacity to express the deepest sort of love imaginable. I did not tell them they had to be married, or they had to be hetero, or they had to avoid birth control. Actually, I said every time they went out for any reason, "Use a condom!" I was here to prevent disease, unwanted pregnancy and promote safety. I didn't tell them it was OK to sleep around, abuse their body or someone else. I wanted them to know that human sexuality is beautiful. I wanted them to know that they are allowed to have their feelings even when it is inconvenient. What they are not allowed to do is be irresponsible about it. My children are the reason I will not be silenced. My children are the reason most days I want to be a better human being. My children and their children and their children are the reason we had better start treating women, their health, their sexuality, their being as important as their male counterparts. I have great faith that my sons will treat their spouses with tenderness and respect. I believe my daughters will stand tall in their own right being their spouse's equal. I believe their friends, wonderfully smart, talented young people will do the same and they will live in a world that is not so over wrought with problems that should have been solved a thousand years ago. I remain hopeful because and for them.

This Love of Mine

Some love stories are loud and epic, some are quiet and strong, some are about a destiny that cannot be denied, Mike and I are "D" all of the above. I knew from the time I was a child I would find someone who would just "get" me, someone who would not only understand who I was, but who would love me for the very stuff that made me unique. I didn't know what he would look like or how we would meet, I just knew one he would show up and I would know exactly who he was. He did indeed show up, and I did know, instantly, immediately and I knew that one day he would know, too. We aren't really a loud couple as in noise, but certainly in laughter, great bursts of bawdy laughter that fill our house. We are epic to each other and scenery. Every vacation we have ever taken has provided us with perfect weather, the kind of perfect that photos cannot capture, the kind of perfect that if you were not able to witness it for yourself, you would never believe it were true. The strength of us is in our unified purpose, our goals and effort together. We have the kind of marriage that takes our breath away, even now, after all these years. I know him. I know every inch of him, able to discern when he is not himself when others would never notice the subtle change. He knows me, the way I feel, the way I need, love and want. It took very minute of every year we have had together to have that kind of carnal knowledge. It hasn't been easy, this love of ours, but it has been the most rewarding relationship either of us have ever had. It's simplicity is in it's acceptance. It's complications come in waves as each of us evolves closer to who we were meant to be, and in this mix of emotions, objective cognitive thought lies the heart of who we are together. Our love story is about being together, experiencing each other as we experience life. It's about laying all of our cards on the table and admitting when we are weak, standing tall supporting the other when we are strong, and knowing that the time we have together is the most precious gift we will ever receive. This love of ours, well, it's so incredibly delicious, so delectable in all it's nooks and crannies of what constitutes a marriage. Unlike the flat cards that represent today, what we are to each other is three dimensional, revealing layers and layers of who are. I was against ever getting married again. I had proven without doubt I was not marriage material. Mike and I talked for a very long time about what I had learned and if I was even capable of trying to do this institution thing again. I viewed marriage as a life sentence with no hope of parole. My married name was what I like to call my slave name, as if I had been bought and paid for by a diamond ring. My view of marriages I had witnessed was dim. I had no want to belong to someone other than me. I didn't want to give my heart away. I wanted it safe and secure in my own chest. I love all things romantic, but had begun to see where it all fell short in the reality of a life. So hearts and flowers be damned, I felt I was better off dating with no vision of a white dress. When Mike proposed, I accepted without hesitation. The hesitation came later for me when wedding talk became real. I had wanted to be engaged for years. Mike wanted to be married. He had waited, he had chosen carefully and felt it was time he made us permanent. While I understood it, I hesitated. Sometimes Mike knows better than I do. Please don't tell him I said so, it would ruin our dynamic, but sometimes he can see things more clearly than I do. What he saw, the future he was certain we would have was so clear, so strong, he was willing to gamble his life on it. He convinced me that we would be better off as man and wife, and I know for certain he was right. Today is only special for us, because it allows us the excuse to be selfish with each other. We have no dinner plans, no going out, no flowers or extravagant gifts, just us together, spending time doing what we do best, appreciating each other and the time we have. Saturday might as well be Valentine's Day , too, because our plans for that day are the same as they are today. As far as we are concerned every day might as well be hearts and cupid day. It is in our consistency that makes our life, our love one big Valentine. He's the love of my life, that man in the picture. He is my best friend, my confidant, my sounding board, my mechanic, my landscaper, my boy toy, my husband and escort for all occasions. He doesn't complete me, I came into this, a whole package with a bonus prize of 4 kids. He isn't my whole world, he's not my better half, he is not my reason for living. I think that is why this works so well, so seamlessly. He is my perfect match, the yin to my yang, the Abbott to my Costello. I pulled out the Valentine's Day decor and lined the our bedroom with hearts. There are more candles in place than at a Catholic alter. I will be dipping strawberries in dark chocolate just for him. We will shake all the fun out of this holiday, just like we do for every holiday. At some point he will wrap his arms around me and I will let go, sinking into him, feeling every inch of how much he loves me and in that exact moment I will have received the gift I love the best, feeling his heart beat echo all through my own chest.

If You Have Nothing Nice To Say

My mother often said "If you have nothing nice to say, then say nothing." Well, lately I have had nothing nice to say. I could rant and rave about the insurmountable pile of crap we have been dealing with in my household, the stress pressing so hard on us it gets difficult to breathe at times, or I could just shut my pie hole. I opted for shutting my pie hole. Bad stuff happens. It just does, it's what I do with it in the end that really matters. It's a lesson I have repeated to my kids over and over and over. Life isn't going to be easy breezy. When dealing with other human beings, sometimes what they show you is that people are crap. Last week people from every direction decided to show me that are crap. My only real job when someone shows me their true character is to believe them. I had reacted in my usual trusting way and tried to help only to find myself in the very awkward position of being totally wrong. We got robbed by internet and my youngest son got mugged. It was one thing toppling on to another thing that about did me in. Thoroughly beaten up, I dragged my sorry ass home and spent the weekend licking my wounds. I went into the bathroom and caught a glimpse of my face. Large bags hung beneath my eyes, my face was pale and my lovely genetically enhanced jowls hung down nearly to the sink. I felt exactly how I looked. I was a perfect match in every way. Our uncertainty, so many jobs hanging in the balance is not helping. Where will end up, will we be able to make it, at what point will the strain of all this finally break the camel's back? Beats the hell out of me. Literally, it is beating the hell out of me. If there is a purpose to all things, then what is the purpose of all this at once? The timing of all the crap coming down the pike here is uncanny. I suppose if we only had a few things to deal with, then maybe, just maybe it wouldn't feel as though we are being attacked and we wouldn't want to take it all personally. But it isn't a few things, it's a large sum of the individual parts that make up our existence that seem to be coming apart. Jobs, home, kids, even the animals have things that are completely off kilter. With few resources left over and no where to hide, I hid from here, from writing, from discussing events or life in general. I write about my life in real terms in real time. So shouldn't I be writing about all this? Part of me thinks not. Negative breeds negative, so I kept thinking it was time to back out and back away from social media and all things interweb. What I am lacking right now in this time is perspective. It was suggested to me that I look for people who have it worse, but I must confess to you that I think that is a horrible idea when I am in a bad place. I have no desire to see other horrific, unjust, over whelming sob stories of folks who have it so much worse. That doesn't make me feel better, it makes me feel hopeless. So what to do, what to do? The perspective I was looking for were the happy ending kind. The "this too shall pass" kind where people find happiness out of tragedy, hope out of injury and triumph out of defeat. If not for those stories, I believe we would all be a little worse off. Here's what I know for sure: Not everybody has good intentions, there are those who are out to hurt you if they can gain something from it. But if I allow it to change me, make me cynical, make me feel as though doing the right things are the wrong answer then I am compounding my mistakes and rewarding their bad behavior. I am not always sure if everything has a reason, at the time it is happening, but I know from past experience that if I wait, with my pie hole firmly clamped down, then I can find some good out of the worst situation. But that takes time, it takes patience and waiting and an inner uncompromising integrity to do the right thing regardless of what others do. It takes strength and stamina and perseverance. It takes more time than social media allows for. I am not instant coffee. I am probably closer to the slow drip of a French press. My answers can't be Googled, they have to be experienced in a slow manner set with intention. Needless to say, I have no idea what will happen in the next week. I would pay good money to find out how this all turns out. It's been weeks for somethings and months for others and still years for other results to pour in. I sit and wait as if observing the election results to witness results to questions long ago asked without answer.Yep, this past week was a doozie, a real pip. It sucked long and hard as my college friends would say. Having been caught in the cross fire of some and the cross hairs of others just waiting to hit us again, I finally broke my own silence. Not wanting to become a product of my environment, I am not sure when I will write again. I would hate to think I am one of those who bitches online just to hear my own voice. That is one kind of validation I don't need. What I like to think will happen is if I allow things to do what they need, all will be revealed in time. Today, silence is not only golden, it is platinum, silver and copper. I have had it worse. I have seen and experienced unspeakable acts, so this is not the worst thing to ever happen to me, or us. It is something that has had lasting effects and seems to be without end. So I am tired, but the other thing I know for sure is a hot bath, a good night's sleep and and my soon to appear perspective will put things to right again.

The Leader of the Band

The world I live in got a little quieter today. My band director from college passed away quietly last night surrounded by his family. On Facebook we all wrote our memories for the last few days of the man who changed all of our lives. A teacher by profession, he taught us so much more than music or rhythm or even style of what near perfection looked like, he taught character, strength, perseverance, and unity. He wasn't a guy, he was the guy. Most everyone who got the opportunity to be directed by Mr. Socciarelli had already worked under several directors. We knew what it was like to play under people who used their arms, hands and batons to lead us into the depths of a musical piece, but Mr. S. was different and we instantly felt it the minute he climbed the ladder to direct the band. He was the band director at Ohio University when I was privileged enough to meet him. He had established his bands as the best any university in Ohio had to offer. I was in the Marching 110, a disciplined group of musicians who were expected without apology to do the impossible in the middle of a football field. We didn't play ordinary, worn out marching band tunes, Mr. S. had our music custom arranged to be musically outstanding at every show. With the precision of surgeon, the tenacity of a drill sergeant, and the influence of a mob boss, Mr. S. pulled the music and marching from us until for him it was right, which meant for every one of us, it was flawless. It's hard to describe the influence he had on his students. We were dog loyal to him, even now, people tell the stories of how he changed them, how he had been able to reach them in a way no one had before. He was funny, really funny, his mannerisms, his ability to say the perfect thing at the exact perfect moment. He had a temper, a fiery Italian temper that had him taking out his frustration on his poor megaphone, whether he was throwing it half way down the field or kicking it down 100 yards, making the field goal kicker envious. On the ladder when he moved his hand even if it could barely be seen, the entire band of over 100 people yielded to it's will. When Mr. S. spoke, we listened as if he were Ghandi, because for us, he was. He was the leader of the band. Michael and I met at band. I credit Mr. S. for bringing us together. Mr. S. knew nothing of us as a couple, but if not for him, we would not have been in the OU 110. Mr. S. created a life long legacy of loyalty and unity in that band. The greatest lesson I received from him was a silly story about recording the band album. The marching season was over, everyone was tired and recording the album was the last thing to do before the season was officially closed. We stood for hours playing and replaying all the charts we had learned for that season. The last song to be played for us as a group was the Alma Mater. I knew the music to that Alma Mater in my sleep, because it was the same tune I had played in high school. We had played it every game, ended all our events with it and we had to play it one more time to put the album to bed. We played a sloppy, sluggish version and wanted to be done. Mr. S. stopped us several times and restarted frustrated at the poor version we were producing. Exasperated, Mr. S. told us to put down our horns. "Sing it!" he commanded. I was rather stunned, looking at the older players for some sort of sign what we were supposed to do. Socc looked at all of us and once again commanded in his booming voice, "You are going to sing this!" The room went dead silent and we got ready to sing our parts. In all of the years and directors I had known I had never been asked to sing my trumpet part. As he lifted his baton into the air their was an audible inhalation as everyone got ready to open their mouths and sing. Mr. S. marching band sang the Alma Mater, bringing with them a melodic beauty to the notes we had just previously butchered. It was magnificent, listening as the different voices of what would have been instruments swirled around the room. Once finished, he looked at us and simply said, "Now play it like that." And we did. Mr. S. looking satisfied ended the day and the season was over. To this day when I can't get a song or phrase right, I sing my part. I have been pretty lucky having known certain people, having worked with those who thought seeking perfection was the only way to live, and Mr. S. was one of those people who taught me to ask for what I wanted and work to get it. The Homecomings when Mr. S. would show up hundreds of alumni would travel hours to get there hoping for the opportunity to play for him one more time. I was always so surprised at the sheer magnitude of his force, the extent of his reach into the lives of those who played for him. Long before the internet, or iphones, or ipads, or apps, there was a stream of communication between bandies at the very idea of Mr. S. being in our presence. Somehow we all knew, or found out, and we all came. Every director since Mr. S. has had the daunting task of living up to his legacy. I pity them, because Socc was a phenomenon not to be repeated again. The very depth and breadth of his work, his teachings will last long after we are all gone. The world is indeed a little quieter today, as hundreds and hundreds of band alumni mourn the loss of our leader. What remains at the end of the day is the strength of the group, the unified whole of people from every corner coming together once again just for him.

Birthday Boy!

Today is Michael, my manfriend's birthday. I was asked recently why I call him my manfriend. Well, I was dating him and we seemed a little long in the tooth to call each other girlfriend or boyfriend. My friend said call him your manfriend, that's what my mother would call him, your manfriend. So it was, manfriend stuck. I long for the days when we used to go skiing for his birthday every year. It was fun for me, but just watching the unmitigated joy on his face as he skied down some of the steepest hills, riding along, going around moguls, as if he was flying, well, it was like watching the best testosterone filled ballet ever. I miss those days when we would be surrounded by friends and snow, lots and lots of snow. He is never as happy as when he is skiing down a double black diamond hill, gracefully maneuvering through the snow. Our son Thomas skate boards, and when I see him weave on his board, it reminds me so much of Michael it makes me tear up. By now everyone who sees what I write knows we are faced with a rather unpleasant quandary of what to do about his impending move away from us. This might very well be the last birthday I get to be with him for a while. Yes, it makes me sad, very sad, but I will say that while he is here, in front of me, coming home from work to this house, I cherish every single minute. I notice everything about him these days. I notice every new grey hair on his head, every mannerism that may have escaped me before, every syllable he utters, even the ones where he is talking about dog pooh. He is without a doubt my manfriend. Michael and I met years and years ago at college, when I was a sophomore and only 19 years old. He was a whopping 22. He was an "old man", what they called upper class men in band. We were both going to Ohio University, and I had gone to band camp for marching band. I knew everything about marching band in high school, but let me tell you, being in the OU 110 was a whole different animal. Michael was on the staff for the band camp and busy doing all kinds of things to help out our director. One job was he had to take pictures of all the new people, so the director could put faces with names. He would stand outside the dorm we were staying in and put us one by one up against a wall and snap the photo. Every time he did it, he got asked the exact same question, "Why?" I was just another face in a long line of newbies he had to photograph. He was surly and short in his answers, even snapping at me when I asked the inevitable question. I couldn't help but feel something was different about this guy, something was extraordinary. I stared at him until he turned around and asked, "What?" I shook my head and headed back to the herd that was my group. I knew then as I know now that there really was something pretty amazing about this saxophone player with the surly attitude. Michael and I dated in college and after. I felt so drawn to him, so riveted by this boy, this brunette, sinewy youth, who was funny, smart, handsome and focused. We were like magnets that always found ourselves next to each other, but we wanted such different things in our youth. Michael wanted to travel, be free to do what he wanted when he wanted. I wanted kids, a home, a family. I knew we were at odds, and he did too. Out of love and respect, we did what felt very unnatural, we let each other go pursue our individual dreams. Love is what brought us together in the first place and love is what escorted us right back out of our relationship. Because it was out of love we decided to part, we made a decision to keep the friendship. Our friendship grew over time, with our acceptance and our expanding lives. I did get married and have kids, and Michael came to the wedding, eventually becoming Betty our youngest, Godfather. We did double date, including our significant others in our friendship. When he broke up from his latest girlfriend, we talked it out. When my marriage failed, he helped me move. We were there for each other in ways I could not have imagined when I was 19. Michael has been my friend when I needed one the most, and I have been his friend when he felt alone and distraught. I look back now and see that is where the real love started, in the showing up for each other without any expectation. We saw each other as people first, treading carefully when needed and making the other laugh when least expected. It is our foundation, this friendship, this companionship and mutual respect. Had you asked either of us way back then, if we would be married now, I doubt we would have seen it. But now, in this time in our lives, it seems completely right, and nearly unthinkable for things to be any other way. Our love sneaked up on us. It came softly, not with overwhelming passion at first, but with quiet walks, and inside jokes, and total appreciation of who each of us were to each other and ourselves. I was right when I saw extraordinary surrounding this man. He is in every way. He is the best friend you will ever have. He is the kindest person you will ever meet. He is generous to a fault, inclusive to his world, gentle to those who are weak, and able to show unbelievable strength when required. My 19 year old self, feeling nothing but a gut instinct, knew enough to stay close to the young man with the agitated demeanor at band camp. I knew enough to treasure him first as a person, the same way he treasures me. We are who we are as a married couple because of who we are as friends. Today we celebrate his birth, the anniversary of his arrival. I can't imagine how this world would look to me without him. He changed my perception of how I see others, how I respond, how I think. His influence is everywhere in me, as if a part of my DNA. I have mannerisms similar to his, now. After being married, we have started to acquire physical traits where there used to be only emotional ones. I tell him all the time, one day I will have a goatee, and a larger nose, while he would have glasses and a craving for chocolate twice a day. (He got his first pair of glasses just last month. Our oldest now calls us Pawpaw and Memaw when we watch television.) Today is one of the happiest days of my life. It is the day God gave me Michael. It is in every sense one of the best days of the year, along with the kids birthdays, because this being the anniversary when they hit the ground running. My darling boy is older, softer, a little greyer around the temples. He is wiser, funnier, and more thoughtful. He is showing our children how aging gracefully looks. He is the best of men, this manfriend of mine. Today is not a day for thinking what we might not have next year, but a time to celebrate where my Michael is today. Today, he has never looked better. He kissed me goodbye this morning and the electricity, the sheer warmth of it has stayed with me all day. He says it's because of static cling. But I know better.

Daddy Issues

Tonight I was thinking about a time with Michael and I where I got to really cut loose. We were dating and I got travel with him to Mexico, Belize, ski trips to upper state New York, really fun stuff. I was not thinking about the kind of daddy issues that lead to a pole, although I did take a one night strip course in which I saw myself in one of those floor length mirrors that prompted me to put away the notion of ever doing any moves in front of anyone, including me. I am talking about the kind of daddy issues where I was both mother and father to the kids after Danny died. It went something like this..."Ladies and Gentlemen, we proudly introduce the one, the only, asexual, food encrusted, dust bunny killing, mom/dad combination...Kellie!" To which I would do a sweeping curtsy and trip over the microphone wire, falling directly on my face. Tahdah! I ran offensive tackle for one son, defensive goal keeper for another one and taught my youngest daughter to stand on my feet when she danced. I had to do it all because there was no one else to do it. I was all consumed with kid stuff. Every once in while I got the chance to travel for a few days and forget that I was both father and mother and I got to be all girl. I lived for the those times, counting the days, packing weeks in advance for the chance to board a plane and become someone's girlfriend. I wasn't much of a drinker. I am known even today as TBK, Two Beer Kellie. Given a little food and a dance floor, I can hold my own with a couple glasses of wine, much more than that will lead to me either falling asleep or falling down. Neither is attractive to a date in a bar. I had been pretty much straight sober before my divorce for 7 and 1/2 years, with the only exception being a wild night at the neighbors making luminaries, drinking wine which lead me to be trapped in my own sweater when I got home falling off the side of the bed. The neighbor and I, both really embarrassed, only spoke of it one time after it happened. She had been blasted as well, watching me stumble home, taking an incredibly long time to key into my house, whose door was already unlocked. So you get the picture, I can't hold my liquor, wine or beer, for that matter. One summer while Michael and I dated I got the chance to go to Cozumel, Mexico. It was hot, July, and I was anxious to get the hell out of my house. It was baseball season, pool season, summer vacation for my kids and they were home being "bored" participating in every activity known to mankind. I was working long hours and coming home to chaos. I needed a break, a vacation from being a parent. I needed to be a girl, woman, person who didn't cut up food on others plates, or run a washer 7 days a week, or chief, cook and bottle washer. In Mexico, we snorkled, swam, laid upon a snow white sandy beach, ate fresh fish at nice restaurants, slept in clean sheets sans the little person in my life who did not like sleeping alone. One night Michael took me to a place called Carlos and Charlies, a loud, wild, dance club for the young drunken set. It was perfect for me, seeing all that tanned youth, drinking shots, dancing carefree, happy to be alive. We were at a table when a guy came up and asked if we wanted a tequila shot. "Ooooh, yes, please." I said almost drooling at the idea of not checking my watch for the time to see when I had to get a sitter home. I was free, the kind of free parents get once only in a very few years. It was the kind of free where time does not exist, patients never die and children are with their grandparents, safely tucked into bed. The first shot was in a very thin, taller than a shot glass glass, that went down like silk. "Mmmmm, delicious." I murmured over the hazy after glow of the alcohol. We were laughing and dancing and having such a marvelous time when the guy came back with the second shot, I immediately said "Yeah!" Once again he gave us the magic tequila, while blowing whistles and shaking our heads as we giggled and slurped. "Yum!" was my only response. The music was banging loudly and we continued on being "partying" kind of people. I had met a young man at the next table and in my increasingly intoxicated state, decided a popcorn fight in the middle of the bar was exactly what was needed to liven things up. This young college kid and I had the best time throwing food, dancing on tables, waving our hands being generally fun loving slightly drunk vacationers. The third time the guy with the shots came around, my inhibitions and judgement were shot. Michael raised his eyebrows at me and said, "Kel, I don't think it's a good idea to have a third one. Those things sneak up on you." Not being of sound mind or body, I responded with a flat, "OK, Dad." With that Michael threw up his hands and let me drink the third shot as I danced around in my warm and very fuzzy state. A little later, the popcorn dude was falling to the floor and Michael was escorting me to my feet so we could make the walk back to our hotel room. He held onto my hand tightly as I bobbed and weaved with invisible changing gravity, down the sidewalk, making our way back to our temporary home. I still in my tequila fuzz, fumbled my clothes off and lay in bed in my underwear. I stayed in the exact same position all night long until the sun rose the next morning. My head banging much like the beat of the previous night's music, I felt sick. I wasn't throw up sick, but I was definitely "oh dear God, kill me" sick. Everything on me hurt. My hair hurt. I was so hungover and craving something cold for my face I went out on the balcony, in my underwear and laid down on the porcelain tile. In Mexico the workers get up and go to work at sun up, so there I was this crazy American drunkard laying out on the balcony in my underwear praying for death. I had put on my sun glasses to keep out the light since my eyes had shriveled to the size of raisins, as the Mexican workers pointed to our balcony yelling "Americana, el loco!" as they wandered down the busy street to work. It's not really an exact quote because I do not really know Spanish, and well, I was a little busy being extremely hungover. Later that morning Michael looked at me as I wore dark glasses, my hair tousled, head in my hands and said, "I guess Dad wasn't wrong after all." Had I not known how right he was, I surely would have called him names and stormed off. Instead all I did was laugh for the first time all day, since my tequila incident. I have never called Michael "Dad" since that night. If he tells me I might not want to do something with that raised eyebrow thing he does, I stop doing it. Wild and crazy was fun, but drunk and hungover was not my cup of tea, which ironically is all I could stomach for a while after my tequila regression. I learned something on that trip. First, I learned whistles, music and college students have a price, second I learned to cut loose without the need to lay face first on a balcony in my underwear in a foreign country, and thirdly, the

most important lesson, when your best friend says don't do it, then that is the perfect time to stop.