Broken Glass

Have you ever just completely lost your shit with your kid, and then immediately regretted it?

Yeah, me either.  I was asking for a friend.

I was just trying to leave for the weekend.  Exit my homestead.  With my husband, who I am married to, but rarely get to hang out with without a million bajillion people around us that we created together alone.  I was just trying to put my luggage (a paper bag with a toothbrush in it because simplicity is best and fastest these days), when I noticed that Charlotte's toys, books, and what not, were spilling out of the vehicle and onto the pavement.  I hollered at her to clear out her belongings because I had to make room for my paper bag.

 As Charlie juggled all of her things, refusing to make two trips like I had suggested, her little freckled 8 year old hands lost the grip of a glass plate.  Just the day before, said glass plate had held a quesadilla.  And now it was all over my driveway.

I mean, I'm allowed to peel oranges which I consume while I steering with my knees.  But WTF?  Why are my people eating carbs and melted cheese in the backseat of my Prius?

As the plate hit the pavement, it smashed into a thousand pieces, many of the shards landing strategically under the tires.  Like they planned it that way.  Like they glass fragments had a huddle before disbursement and said, "Hey guys, you wanna see Michelle lose her MIND?  Make sure you spread far and wide, and land squarely under those big round rubber things.  She's trying to leave to hang out with her husband for a Married Couples Retreat.  C'mon, I guarantee this will be money."

My reaction sort of went as follows right after the plate dropped to the ground...

Me (clutching my paper bag): "OH MY GOD!!!!  I cannot even LEAVE without a DRAMA.  Look at this Charlie!  If you would have just made TWO trips, this could have been AVOIDED."

Charlie, stood deflated, stung by my words, hot tears starting to well the rims of her eyeballs: "Sorry Mama."

I brushed past her, flung open the front door, and stormed inside the house to grab the broom and dustpan, mumbling under my breath.

Emma, completely unaware of what had just gone down, was cheerily perched in the kitchen, baking a cake. "Hey Mama, I thought you had left with Daddy," she said, without even looking up.

Suddenly, she paused from her mixing and looked at me, sensing a predator was in close proximity.  She looked away quickly, averting eye contact, with an intuitive knowing that something horrible had happened out front.  She was too full of fear to ask what that horrible thing was, worried this T-Rex who had taken over her mother's body may consume her unbaked cake.  She decided for her own benefit, and that of her sisters, to say nothing more.  And so she continued to mix.

When Tom and I finally did leave, I confessed, "I hate leaving like that.  I mean, in the big picture, it was an accident.  And it's like I can hear the words fueled by anger coming out of my mouth, and I just can't stop them.  I hate it."  Tom just nodded, and simply said, "Yeah, babe."

That man...he's a god damn keeper.

Yesterday, I went to work, got a hike in, and then ran to Costco.  I make it home just in time to unload the groceries before grabbing Charlie from school. As I hurriedly opened the hatchback to the Prius, a jar of marinara sauce smashed into a million pieces onto the pavement.  I watched it fall, orange sauce spreading over my driveway, and had this thought, "Yep, that's what you get sister.  See?  Even a grown woman can have accidents.  It wasn't Charlie's fault when she dropped the plate."  My next thought was, "That jar of marinara was 7 bucks.  Shit."

Just then, Tom pulled up, realizing the irony of the situation and said, "I know you've got to get Charlie honey.  I'll clean that up for you."

God damn keeper.

Humbled yet once again by my children, and the ever present patience of my husband.   I will work on delivering grace with grace.  I will work on forgiving more easily.  It just feels better that way.  I can't say how long it's gonna take though.  Based on my record thus far, it may be awhile.  Sigh.

The Stockings

Last week, I stood brushing my teeth in my bathroom, half asleep, when I had this epiphany.  Still groggy, and not yet ready to face the day, this epiphany came.

Have you ever thought of something that is so completely obvious, and it has been obvious for quite some time, but for some reason it doesn't really "hit home".  Until it does.

And then it really does.

I remembered that I don't have a Christmas stocking.  I'm a 46 year old grown woman, preoccupied with raising my own family, with far too many children that all have their stockings hung by the chimney with care.  Beautiful hand made stockings, by the way, with intricate detail by my Auntie, as seen above.  In fact, I'm sure she sighed with relief when she realized Charlotte was our last baby :)

But my stocking, the one that my Mom hand made for me, with an iron-on Santa, back in the '70's? Like so many others, it was lost in the Santa Rosa fires.  

My brother Paul's stocking, that had an upside down felt Santa, with his head at the bottom and his feet at the top, with a bell next to his name, and a coffee stain across the middle of it?  No more.

My brother Matt's stocking, which hung in between Paul's and mine, with a bell at the corner of his felt Santa's hat?  Also gone.

My Dad's stocking which was decorated with a felt lion, and my mom's stocking, in the shape of a ladies boot lined with sparkly sequins?  All gone.

I have known this for over a year.  But all of a sudden, it hit me.  All five of the stockings that I grew up with, and knew so well, each for it's intricacies and details, are gone.  

At Christmas, every time I would travel from the kitchen down the hallway, towards my bedroom, there were our stockings, taped to the wall.  Yes, you read that right.  Mom taped them to the wall because, well, we didn't have a fireplace.  So the hallway wall it was!  Yo, Foxy was a problem solver. 

Our family also had two (and sometimes three) trees.  Don't judge :) The kids tree sat perched in the family room, resting on our orange and brown linoleum floor.  We adorned it with school made ornaments, like soldiers with crooked eyeballs, and snowmen with a shit ton of glitter, and threads strung with popcorn and cranberries.  It was a sight, and quite beautiful in my eyes.

The tree in the living room (a room designated solely for company), really belonged to my mom.  Foxy decorated that tree like it was straight up her job. Our nativity set, had a manger with a roof that was caving in.  If Jesus was to be born in a barn, it would definitely have a questionable roof that may or may not make it through Mary's labor, right?  Talk about realism!   The angel lay on top of the caved in roof, and although as a kid,  I would worry the angel might fall through, I was also strangely reassured that she could fly if things went sideways.  The manger was lovingly placed at the base of Foxy's tree. 

I would lay underneath the tree,  next to the manger, looking up through the branches, taking in the fresh pine smell and pastel lights strung up perfectly.  To this day, I prefer pastel lights to any other kind; they are calming and comforting.

And every time I passed the stockings taped to the hallway wall,  I would tap the bells.  Until eventually, the tape would wear loose, and the stockings would need to be secured with yet more tape.  Funny thing is, my mom never got frustrated about this.  I think she just knew that as kids: we had to tap those bells.

Paul, Matt and I tapped the bells as we made our way to our bedrooms down the hall.  We tapped those bells on our way to the kitchen because dinner was ready.  I tapped the bells on my way to the garage to put on my soccer cleats for practice.  Or on my way out the door, gussied up to go to the Christmas dance with a boy from another school (because teenage girls,  you NEVER date someone who goes to your school).   Too.  Much.  Drama.  

Those stockings were always there.  And now they are not.  I have the memories of what each one looked like, and tapping the bells.  The fire can't take those memories. 

At this point, whether in Santa Rosa, like my dad, down south, or beloved Paradise...we all know someone or someone who knows someone, who has lost everything.  So many sentimental trinkets (too many to count), hand made baby blankets, childhood pictures tucked away in a suitcase, and wedding dresses that were being saved for daughters or grand daughters or great grand daughters, all lost in the fires.  

And so, this is what I have learned:  cherish the small things.  remember the good things, and tender memories will replace the lost things, that can no longer be salvaged.

Take care of yourself and your tribe because, in the end, that is all that really matters.  That is a sacred, sacred bond.

And, take the time to tap the bells.  

Help a Sister Out

There has been something weighing on my heart.  Something I would like to share with you.  It is about a time, like many families, when we fell on financial hardship.  

It was the perfect  shit storm:  I had just discovered I was pregnant with (the best) surprise #5 baby ever. I told Tom while I was folding laundry.  He seemed genuinely excited.  But then, that's Tom Walsh Super Genius.  

But I  have this other distinct memory of sharing the "good news" with my Mom.  I braced myself by holding onto the kitchen counter, saying something like, "Mom, you'll never guess what..." and then I burst into tears.  She assured me, "Honey, it will be okay."  She was right.  Foxy was always right :)

At the same time, the recession was raging, leaving Tom's little carpet cleaning business suffering, like in a very bad way.  Some weeks, we didn't have grocery money, but somehow we always managed.  

We decided to file for bankruptcy.  But we told no one because there was so much shame.  We felt defeated and like we had failed our family.  And we were filled with so many overwhelming unanswered questions.  Would we be able to keep our home?  Would I need to go back to teaching full time, and if so, who would care for Charlotte?  

This is certainly not where I thought I would be in my late 30's...twin 10 year olds, an 8 year old, a 5 year old (who called 911 when we brought Charlie home from the hospital because she wasn't the baby anymore - true story), and a "failure to thrive" infant on my hip, who failed to nurse.  Looking back, I can almost attest to the fact that Charlotte was picking up on my nervous and stressed out energy, which is why she wouldn't latch to my breast.  We couldn't afford formula...this kid needed to breast feed!  She did learn eventually, but it left this Mama extremely depleted and wondering how I continued to fail my daughters.  

At one time or another, we have all asked ourselves a symphony of the following questions: How did I get here?  What am I supposed to learn from this? And when the fuck will it be over?

Tom and I hunkered down in our faith, and began to trust with really open hearts.  Because when you're broken, that's all you  have left.  We cut out all unnecessary expenses, and I mean everything.   I began trimming the girls hair on our front porch, and no one said anything mean about how crooked their bangs hung in front of their eyes. I was thankful for that. We frequented Happy Hollow because we had a Family Pass, and would walk the 3 blocks to park for free.  I began buying clothes for the girls for NEXT year from the clearance rack with the little money I did have, because those were the best deals.  We went to the library religiously, and I believe this is where the girls love of reading really began.  And we ate dinner at home nightly, with many meals made from ground turkey...spaghetti, chili, taco's.  My goal was to feed my family of 7 for under $10, and more times than not, I was successful.  

As women do, I got real resourceful, real quick.  

It was around this time, that I asked for a scholarship for the twins to participate in Girls on the Run:  a non-profit, girl power after school program.  It encompassed all of values and traits we were instilling in our daughters at home: being strong in mind and body, being a good friend, sticking up for people, using your voice.  The program ends with a million bajillion third through fifth graders running a 5K...and it is the cutest gosh darned thing you will ever witness.  Daddies and daughters running hand in hand, decked out with feather boa's.  Mama's jogging side by side their little mini me's...if you ever need a pick me up, I highly recommend checking it out.  

And it was there, after Abby, Bella and I completed our first 5K together, that I saw a booth for Athena Camps:  a girl power summer camp in its very first season.  Aby Ryan, the owner and founder, sat behind the table, and as we approached, I could just tell there was something special about her.  I inquired about camp and the cost.  I asked if there were scholarships available.  And this is what Aby did:  she allowed my girls go to camp for a week for FREE. 

I will never forget, holding Charlotte on my lap, Emma and Cozy at my feet, at the closing ceremony of Athena Camps that Friday, bawling with gratitude that my daughters had been given this opportunity.  Aby's kindness and generosity were life changing.

Fast forward 7 years, and guess where Abby and Bella were employed this last summer?  Athena Camps!  It was at this pivotal moment  and I realized the impact and importance of the full circle.  We had been helped, and now I want to give back. 

 My chapter of financial scarcity helped teach me this: simplicity is best, goodness in others is abundant, and love always wins.  Currently, Village Well is donation based, and I never ever want finances to prevent someone from attending. 

I would like to create a scholarship fund. I feel very called to have all women who want to come, be part of a Workshop or Retreat, regardless of finances. 

If this tugs at your heart like it does mine, please consider donating any amount of money to help a woman make a retreat or workshop.  I will take your donations and match them with my cost of time and materials.  And when I say any amount, I really mean it: whether its $5 or $100!  

I promise you will be making an immeasurable difference for another woman.  

If you would like to donate, please reach out to me at myvillagewell@gmail.com. You can also call or text me at (408) 832-0089.  

With Eternal Gratitude,

Michelle 

I Wore This Shirt

I wore this shirt as I picked up my happy go lucky, crazy red headed, snaggle toothed cutie from school yesterday.  I wore this shirt, as she held Bo on the leash as we crossed the street near the high school baseball field, making our way back towards our home.  

I wore this shirt, as we approached a man who was writing something on the dusty window of his truck.  "Oh," I thought, "He's leaving a message for someone."  I was right:  the message was for me.  TRUMP 2020, it said.  

I wore this shirt as I made direct eye contact and smiled at him.  In the very next parked vehicle, in a maroon minivan, a woman called out to me, "Excuse me, may I ask you a question?"  I wore this shirt, as I answered, "Of course."  

She asked me her question, but she wasn't really asking me, because she already knew the answer to her very own question, "So about your shirt...what does it mean?  Are you Pro Trump?" 

I paused and saw where she was trying to lead me.  The truck writing guy stood on the sidewalk behind us, arms folded across his chest, like a bully on the school yard.  

I wore this shirt as I calmly inhaled, and gently, but unwavering, answered, "I'm all about love."  

She looked at me befuddled, head cocked sideways.  I wasn't adding any fuel to her fire.  I was actively choosing not to engage in the shit storm that could possibly ensue, as my 7 year old and Black Lab waited on stand by. She wanted more, and obviously, was not prepared for my reply.  She continued to look at me, quizzically. 

So I added, "You see, Michelle Obama said this."  There wasn't but a moment before she unloaded, "Oh God, I can't stand those guys.  I hate all of them.  They make me crazy!"   I wore this shirt as I thought, she is full of angst and spite just from my very presence...enough to stop an at-home mom walking her seven year old home from school. 

I wore this shirt, as I gently leaned back away from her car, and said, "Well, have a wonderful day."  I walked away from the scene of the crime feeling like someone had deflated my balloon.  Like she hated me too, because essentially, that was what this perfect stranger was telling me even though we were just that: perfect strangers.  

I wore this shirt, as I drifted home, trying to have a "teachable moment" with Charlotte. I explained that "trump" is not just the last name of our President, but it has another meaning: to win over.  When folks have anger or are disrespectful towards us, we stand in our power, and own our truth by being honest, but kind and respectful.  I asked Charlie, "And how did Mama react?"  I wore this shirt, as my daughter answered, "You showed her kindness Mama.  You showed her love."  

I wore this shirt as I stood in my kitchen and thought, we cannot use blanket statements like "them" and "they", and "hate" and expect to truly see and hear one another. I bet truck writing guy and maroon minivan woman and I are far more alike than we are different.  And suddenly, I was overcome with sadness.  When will be able to come together?

 I wore this shirt as I wiped my eyes, and decided I will not be demeaned.  Or belittled.  Or bullied.  Or made to feel inferior.  

I wore this shirt as my daughter witnessed: love wins every God Damn time.  And I will continue to teach my daughters this, through my words, but most importantly, through my actions.

And I wore this shirt, as I gave myself permission to purchase more shirts :)

A Letter to My Daughters

My Daughters...

Abigail, Isabella, Emma, Cosette and sweet Charlotte,

I am not sure exactly why, but I have been gently nudged to write you a letter.  As I type it, I, myself, am not even really sure what I am supposed to tell you.  But my heart wisdom will exit my fingers, and find it's way out onto the keyboard hopefully, in a somewhat sensible manner.

First and above all else,  REMEMBER TO BE YOU, especially when those you know and love are standing with you.  But even more importantly, when others, stuck in their own insecurities, are forcibly pushing against you.  They may try to break you by saying you are too bright, too much, too big, or too outspoken.  When you feel scared or confused, remember where you come from:   a home full of love and light, where it is safe but messy, comfortable but cluttered, where all are welcomed.  A home that often smells of chili in the crock pot, and the scent of wet dog after Bo comes in from the rain.  Remember, that no matter what you do, positive or negative, struggle or triumph, big or small, my love for you will never, ever, ever change.  I am here to celebrate all of your successes, but more so,  to love you when you have failed, and are not sure if you have the strength to continue.

LISTEN TO YOUR INTUITION.  If something in your life is happening, and it doesn't feel quite right, and you can't seem to put your finger on it, that is God gently poking you, asking you to reassess the situation.  Don't be fearful to ask for guidance and courage to do the right thing.  And this right thing may be for you, but often, I have found in my own path,  it is for someone else.  This will be one of many  opportunities to be brave, and self-less.  Even if you feel unsure, remember that every step you have taken before this scary one, has prepared you for this exact moment.  Trust this truth.

TRY NEW THINGS! I am quite the simpleton...in how I pray, in what I eat, and how I move my body each day. But I want MORE for you! 

If your heart desires, jump off a bridge...SAFELY, and with a bungee cord, or course :) Learn to play a new instrument, and practice it, not caring if the music sounds horrendous as you master the strings or keys. If it fills up your spirit, play away. Sing...in the shower, up on stage, at a concert, off key, or while you're driving.  Use your voice to unleash the part of your soul that remains silent at times, for fear of being found out.  God gave you that voice before you even came here, and it is to be used!  Travel...on a sister pilgrimage to Nicaragua, to Europe to discover where our families came from, paying attention to the people who come into your path, and how there are no coincidences.   Remember that just by being you, amazing things will start to happen.  People are drawn to the light, and you are that!  For daddy and I, but for so many others. And you're not even aware of this gift.  You don't even understand that yet, but it's okay.  You are here to shine so that others may feel hope and joy and grace.  Don't worry, you're going to do just fine!

Remember, no matter what happens, YOU ARE DIVINELY AND UNIQUELY MADE.
I don't have any sisters myself, to show "how to do it".  In my own life, I have stumbled with arrogance, tripped with inflexibility, and made poor decisions due to lack of empathy and compassion.  I have questioned my Catholic faith, my Priest (sorry Father John), and my church.  I have fought against doing the right thing, because it was easier in the moment to be lazy and complacent.  I have made mistakes, but in time, have come to realize they were each my greatest teachers.

In due time, I will share these experiences with you, when I feel it is appropriate.   I firmly believe that by sharing the choices from my past that left me feeling shameful, unworthy, and unlovable, it will provide you the opportunity to choose differently in your own path. And to remind you that you are never alone, because Mama, too, is a work in progress.

 Above all,

May you drink in...

Joy and Grace in your thoughts.

Faith and Trust in your actions.

Love and Hope in your heart.

Courage and Truth in your abilities.

Strength and Humility from within.

You are worthy of all of this.  I love you.

Love,
Mama

Mama, Do You See...

Hey Mama,

It's been a little over 3 years now that you have gone Home, but I still think of you often, especially as our girls hit milestones, and drop truth nuggets for me to fetch, and learn from.

Mom, did you know that Abby continues to astonish and humble me with her old soul wisdom?  We were walking on the beach a few weeks ago, when she and I noticed a group of folks fully dressed, playing in the sand and surf.  The men donned dark denim jeans and long sleeved shirts, while the women made sand castles in long skirts and bonnets covering their hair.  This group of folks were having an absolute blast, squeals of joy could be heard from far away, and the only difference between them and us was this:  we had on bathing suits, and they were wearing clothes and bonnets.

 Abby inquired, "Mom, do you think it would be okay if I asked about their faith and culture?"  I said, "Yes, honey.  They would probably love talking with you." (they might try to convert you, but it's all good :)

Abby has this beautiful transparency about her, curious to know what these folks were about, without judgment.  And then she dropped this truth bomb:  "You know what I think, Mom?  That the true key to loving others, is seeking to understand them."

Mom, do you see how Bella is stepping into her own path, knowing intuitively she wants to attend a Jesuit college because she is seeking a faith community that will support her?  (Tom and I will have to rob a bank, or live in a trailer down by the river, or both).  Did you see her sing with the choir at Mass on Sunday for the first time?  Do you see how she throws her head back, and smiles from cheek to cheek, while giggles escape her mouth when she's laughing?

Mom, do you see Emma full of FIRE and a burning desire to DO THE RIGHT THING?  Do you see her standing her space, with her 100 lb self, but emanating the size of an elephant?  Do you see her Mom?  Strong, and steady, honest and full of spark?  Do you see her wanting to play Lacrosse, and do Speech and Debate, but also try Journalism?  Do you see her organizing and rallying the twins to take a sister "Pilgrimage" to Nicaragua next summer with the church?  She's already saving money for the trip.

Do you see Cosette, with her quick wit and funny expressions, always trying to make us laugh?  Do you see how she's starting to fill out and become a young lady?  The rolling fog of childhood has begun to burn off, and just whispers remain now.  But do you see how she's still quick to hug anyone who's breathing and break out into spontaneous fits of laughter?  And how she volunteers to walk the neighbor's dog, not for money, but just because?

And do you see Charlotte with her red hair, streaked with blond, from all the swimming this summer?  It hasn't turned green like mine use to, Mom.  Thank goodness.  She reminds me of you sometimes, Mama.  I wish she would sit still long enough for me to count her freckles that sprinkle across her nose, and splash onto her cheeks.  But alas, she's onto the next thing... Barbies, Lego's, snuggling with Bo, driving Cosette bonkers.

And do you see how when she's feeling a bit tired, she hunkers down, finds a quiet spot on the couch, or out back in the shade, and she reads her chapter book?

I wish I could speak to you  about all of this.

More times than I care to admit, I am overcome with emotion, and tears of immense gratitude well up from inside of me, and find the pathway down my face, because I feel so incredibly blessed.  I stand back, and cannot believe how lucky I am to help mold these daughters.

And I wait with excited anticipation to watch how they will leave their mark in the world.  I just wish I could talk to you, Mama.

 And you could tell me what you think about all of this crazy, loud, lovely, and beautiful chaos.

Are You the Temple?

So if you don't legitimately think I'm crazy already, this blog entry will most likely solidify that belief.  Please read with caution, and if at any point, you feel as though I was a witch in a former life, rest assured: I do, too.

A week ago, I received a phone call while standing in my kitchen making vegetable soup.  It was an unknown number from back east, (you know, a cold call,  a telemarketer, a call I would never pick up).   Quite surprising, even to myself, I answered, and a woman with a thick Indian accent, asked, "Is this the temple?"  I answered, "Um, no.  I'm sorry, this is not the temple."  I hung up, and reverted back to chopping onions, and sauteing garlic.

My mind flashed to earlier in the morning, when I had received yet a different call from back east, that I had not picked up.  Out of curiosity more than anything else, I decided to call it back.

When it was picked up, I said, "I received a phone call from you earlier?"

 Although a woman had initially answered, (a woman who sounded eerily similar to the woman I had just spoken with a few moments prior-temple woman), the phone was quickly handed to a man, with a thick Indian accent who inquired, "Who are you?"

"NO-who are YOU?" I fired back,  feeling protective, and unsure.  Sensing my alarm, he calmly explained that he and his wife were coming from Chicago to the San Francisco Bay Area next week, and had been searching for Hindu Temples.  That is when they found my phone number.

"MY number was listed for a temple?" Hmm, I thought, confused.  "Yes," he said with a deep laugh, "But after hearing your voicemail, we understood that we probably had dialed incorrectly."  (code for when I heard a white woman's voice, I pretty much figured wrong number).

I wished he and his wife safe travels, and we hung up.

Then I did what any paranoid, crazy middle aged woman in my situation would do:  I googled "San Francisco Bay Area Temples" - and lo and behold, that's when I saw it!  A Sunnyvale temple with a very similar phone number to mine...he and his wife had just switched 2 digits, and got a hold of me.

 Instead of like... a Holy person :)

I called my new friend back in Illinois, and explained what happened, and he thanked me very much. Before we hung up this time, I let him know, if he needed anything while out in California, just give me a ring.

Truth be told, for most of the Inauguration week, overwhelming feelings of anxiety and worry had starting creeping into my thought bubble.  But as I stood in my kitchen, chopping celery, I received a message.

 It was simply this:  you ARE the temple.  The light shines in you, and in ALL.

Wow God, I totally did NOT see that coming.  Nice work.  I became calm and more centered.

Later that evening, I posted on the FB Women's March in San Jose, that I felt very proud my daughters and I would be walking with many others that Saturday.  The same artist who is famous for Obama's HOPE poster, had just completed some new artwork.  And in the post, I included 3 pictures of his inspiring, patriotic and symbolic expressions of all races.

And then it happened: in the first few minutes, there were 10 likes, then 100, then over 1,500.  It was exciting, but scary.  The post started getting shared,  I became fearful because I clearly stated that my daughters and I would be marching, and now my name was out.

 I felt like a Mama Bear protecting her cubs.  I certainly hadn't expected this response, but at this point, I couldn't take it off.  All of the reactions were kind, and full of excitement, except one.  A hateful troll said, "This is what you're promoting", and it was a video of a very violent protest.

 Immediately, I removed it, and blocked the troll.

But the paralyzing fear came back, and enveloped me in full force.  I felt like I had no way of protecting my tribe.  Paranoid questions bombarded my mind like teenage girls flocking at a Justin Bieber concert...relentlessly.

What if the March turned violent?  What would my reaction be?  How could I teach the girls to remain peaceful, even if they felt threatened?

I would just like to clarify: I didn't see violence erupting from a Trump supporter or Hilary supporter.  I was caught up in Mama Bear mode.

Then it happened...as my stomach twisted up in knots, and my brow furrowed with worry, my phone rang.

I gazed at an unknown number from the Bay Area, and picked up.

That is when I heard, yet a different Indian woman's voice ask, "Is this the Temple?"

Meekly, I answered, "Um, no.  This is not the Temple, but (sigh), let me give you the correct number."

It was like God was playing Whack a Mole with me.  Michelle didn't quite get the memo the first time with the nice Indian couple from Chicago.  I've got to pull out the big guns and drive it home.

The message was clear this time:  fear not.  I would never put you or the girls in harm's way intentionally.  Seek to understand others.  You are the Temple.  And so are your daughters.  And so is each person you come in contact with.  Spread light and love.

Message received.

And then God did a mic drop :)

The Phoenix

I woke up on Tuesday morning full of excitement, hope, and enthusiasm.  As I embraced each of my daughters that morning, I looked them straight in the eyes, and said with conviction and clarity, "Today is the day!  Today is the day we've been waiting for!  Today, in your lifetime, you will see the first woman be elected President of the United States."  

I believed it to my core.  How could this election go any other way?

And then it did.

 I came to a shocking realization that I live in a bubble: it is a bubble called California.  And I have felt a physical grieving inside of me that I haven't felt since Foxy died.  This pit in my stomach.  A feeling of unease, and utter sadness.  A deep and dark despair, that I live in a country that believes it's okay for the next Commander in Chief to grab a woman by her "pussy".

Memories that lay asleep in me for countless years, out of shame, and guilt, began to bubble to the surface of my being.  A flame, which for decades burned as a flicker, became a raging fire.

Overnight.

Please allow me to be completely transparent.  The time to share this is now.  I trust you with my vulnerability, but it takes some courage.  But I would place a bet that very similar things have happened to you, too, if you're a woman.

And if they haven't happened to you, they have happened to your mother, your daughter, your sister, your cousin, your daughter-in-law, your sister-in-law, your grandmother, your Nana, your Nonnie, your Oma, or your best friend.

Irregardless of race.  Irregardless of  spiritual beliefs.  Irregardless of stature.

Irregardless of who you chose to cast a vote for in the election.

You see, the first time I was "grabbed by the pussy", I was six years old.  This act of molestation only happened once, thank God, but I remember it vividly.  I can picture where I was sitting on the couch, the flowered nightgown that I was wearing, and the fact that I was alone with this person.  And I knew one thing: I did NOT like it one bit!  After he was done, I said, with utter disgust,   "I'm telling on you."  

I felt no shame OR guilt.  I was reeling, and kept asking 'Why did he do that to me?'  Looking back now, it felt like I was a little under aged lawyer who demanded justice.

But things get tricky.  And this was before Mc Gruff, the crime dog.  And well, I'm not sure if justice was ever really served.

The next time I was "grabbed by the pussy",  I was with my college basketball team in Mexico for a tournament.  While I was dancing with a man, he stuck his fingers up inside of me.  INSIDE OF ME!  In public.  With people surrounding us.  He just acted like it was business as usual.

I was shocked and disgusted!  I didn't know how to react except to get the hell away from him as fast as I could.  I was ashamed, and felt dirty.  Even though I had done nothing wrong!  

I never told anyone.  You're the first to hear this.

Another time a guy tried to get handsy with me, I was in college at Chico State.  When I politely refused his advances, he slapped me across the face.  I stood there stunned.

And then I went fucking nuts.  I came at him, fists flying.  He was huge.  A big guy.  My friends had to pull me off, because had he gotten the opportunity, I am fairly certain I would have ended up in the hospital.

But why is it that I have kept these secrets hidden for so long?  Out of shame, guilt?  Why?!  I have done nothing wrong, and yet, as women, we plow ahead like it doesn't affect us.  Well, this person we have elected as our next Leader, IT AFFECTS ME.

What frightens me is what we are becoming.  Saying we hate women is okay.  Grabbing a woman by her pussy is acceptable.

And believe me, I'm just getting started.  I don't have time, nor do you, to hear what I have to say about other issues regarding equality, bigotry, and absolutely no tolerance for racism.

I will just say this: if you are any shade other than white, I love you.  If you are a Muslum/Hindu/Christian/Jew/Atheist, or are just not sure, I love you.  If you have two moms, or two dads, or a mom and a dad, I love you.  If you were born a man, but feel like you may want to be a woman, I love you.

This is what I teach my daughters, and that will never change.

And we will rise like the Phoenix, out of the ashes.  Flash forward four years, and believe me when I say we will RISE.  Three of my five daughters standing by me side by side, as we walk into the voting booth.

Until then, we will promote love.  Because love is always the answer.

Always.

The Boy

There is a boy in the mix now.  Bella met him at Jesus Camp.  He is also a twin,  No I'm not making this up.  Yes, we should have our own TV show.

And so, I got to meet this boy, who shall remain nameless, (because quite honestly, if my OWN kid finds out I'm telling you all of this, she'll KILL me, so I can't throw the boy under the bus too...just my own offspring).

Here is one thing you should know about our family: if you date one Walsh girl, you are basically committing to dating the entire clan, our tribe, yep...all 7 of us.

Case in point: when the boy arrived, and rang the door bell, Cosette dropped her Calico Critter hedgehog family, and came hauling out of her room like a freight train, to unbolt the locked door, while screaming at the top of her lungs, "HE'S HEEEERRRRRE BELLA!!!"

Yeah, we're super low key like that.

As Charlotte and Cosette wrestled each other to be the first to welcome him in, Abby strolled into the living room slowly, protectively, like a predator, to claim her spot on the couch, and simply watch all of this chaos unfold.

Meanwhile, Tom, who had parked himself at the kitchen table pretending to fix something, says to me, "What are we going to do about this kid?" , like it's a Math problem that we need to solve.   And I say, "Um, let him in?  Like, we're not burying bodies, or anything.  At least, not yet.  But if we ever need to do that, I have some excellent hiding places."

 I almost wish I would have had a Go Pro camera attached to my head to record exactly how visibly nervous the boy was, as he politely, but firmly shook my hand.  From the smirk on Abby's face, I observed that his trembling fear, satisfied her completely.

In fact, not long ago, Abby, Bella and the boy went to a movie.  And where do you think Abby sat?  Right smack dab in between the love birds.  Because she's awesome like that.

There have been lots of "firsts" lately.  Like Ms. Emma, who has earned nothing but straight A's her entire life, (yes, she's mine, but I'm not sure how), failing her first Geometry test in High School.  Poor Em.  She was absolutely beside herself.  Bawling, sobbing, shaking from side to side.  I walked into her room, knowing I needed remain calm, and inquired hopefully, "Have you emailed the teacher?"

"Yesss," snort, sniff, long whine, snot, "But" (GASP), "I haven't" (ANOTHER GASP), "heard" (COMING UP FOR AIR),  "back yet." More wailing.  Followed by yet more crying.  Tears and snot combined to make a slimy river, running down her face.

See, here's the thing, when my daughter is losing her shit over a test she just bombed, I am thinking, "Welcome to my world of not straight A's, sister!  Build a bridge, friend.  Put on your big girl panties.  Learn from this."

 I know, I'm a horrible person.  But I'm being honest.  I truly suck in this department.

So I offered, "Great job advocating for yourself," and then slowly, but deliberately removed myself from the Black Hole of Sorrow, and proceeded to pour myself a drink.  Peace out, Girl Scout.

Don't judge.  But instead, join me in my excellent decision making.

Which is exactly what Tom did: joined me on the couch with his drink.  Because this is what couples do at the end of a long day with kids.  We hobble to the couch, talk about our day, while having a drink.  It's like a ritual: similar to working out, eating a balanced diet, getting enough sleep, or making time for prayer and meditation.  Except with alcohol.

But because of Emma's impending whining, we couldn't hear each other.  And this was making us both want another drink.  As if on cue, Abby came wafting into the living room, to inquire why her sister was on another planet.

It was then Tom made a request, "Abby, can you please go handle that?" pointing in the direction of Raging River.  See, what I did just there?  Just like the Native Americans, I named my kid to match her behavior.  Like, I wonder what my Native American name would be...Lady With Big Mouth Too Many Kids.

And so like a first born, who is also a Boss Lady, Abby vanished to go deal with her blotchy faced, red eyed sister, who was convinced her life had taken a turn for the worst.

Tom and I heard Abby's voice rise and fall, like the wind during a storm, but also noticed Emma's crying ceased.  And after about 15 minutes, Abigail confidently rolled into the living room, faced us on the couch triumphantly , hands on her hips, and asked, "Did you even hear what I said in there?!  I KILLED it. And by the way, you're welcome."  She then disappeared into her room to retire for the evening.

Another "first" is that Cosette is now walking home from school with friends.  She even got hit by a car near our house, while crossing Lincoln at the light her first day.  Yep, that ADD is a real thing.

Maybe "hit" is too strong of a verb.  Tapped by a car?  But here's the deal: THE KID NEEDS TO LOOK BOTH WAYS, MAKE EYE CONTACT, AND THEN PROCEED,   I'm relieved she wasn't actually hurt, and glad that it happened the first day.  Lesson learned.   I'm like, SEE?! You can get HIT/TAPPED by a CAR, when you don't LOOK, and aren't paying ATTENTION.  I was RIGHT (about one thing).

I bet by the time Charlotte is old enough to walk home, she'll just hitch hike.  I will be so elderly, and exhausted by that point in my life, I'll just be glad she made it, and ask her to fetch me a Protein replacement shake from the kitchen.

But for now, there is a tribe of 3 Littles that stroll home with me: Charlotte, and two neighborhood sisters, Leslie and Sammy.  I leash the beast, and Bo greets the girls outside the school gate with his kidney bean dance.  As they run, their happiness is clearly tangible. All three Little's snuggle their faces in his mane, and give hugs and kisses. Tell him he's a good boy.

The girls devour their half eaten lunches, while we amble the mile and a half  back towards home.  Leslie, who's backpack is bigger than she is, walks Bo, while keeping him on a short leash, letting him know who's boss.  Along our path, we must stop to look at the chickens through the chain link fence near WGHS.  Sometimes, we talk to them.  We then make yet another stop to pet Kody, my friend's dog.  And while the girls are giving Kody loving pets through the gate, Bo is on the prowl for the cat who resides here, so he can essentially, eat her.  But Leslie's got it under control.

Right next door to Kody's house, we check out a neighbor's rather elaborate fairy garden she has set up in her front yard.  It has multiple bridges, that cross a river, as dragons and fairies look on from where they are perched.

 This is on the daily.

 I feel like parenting this beautiful combination of "being in the moment" with my children, and grieving that the moment has passed by.  It's fleeting.

Like being enchanted with fairies.  Or walking home for the first time from school. Or having your first boyfriend.  Gone.

And I came to this realization: the time that I spend with my daughters creating memories, reminds me of how I felt with my Mom when she and I were blessed enough to spend time together the last two years of her life.

And I don't want it to ever stop. 

I miss my Foxy Mom.  I miss my friend who would listen to me without fear of judgement or shame.  I miss doing her hair and painting her nails.  Most of all, I miss laughing with her.

There are so many times, I just want to call her up, and say, "Oh my gosh Mom, guess what happened today?!  Cozy got hit by a car!  But she's okay Mom!  And Bella is interested in a boy.  But Abby is on Security Patrol with that situation.  Oh and Mom, Charlotte still believes in fairies."

 And it's then I sense her presence...I see you, Michelle.  I'm right here.  Believe me, I wouldn't miss any of this.  And in case I forgot to tell you, I am so proud of you.

Questions for my Kids...

Are you the only person in your house that knows how to change the roll of toilet paper?  This is code speak for change the roll so the tissue is falling the correct way.

Not that I have control issues.

Have you ever found a container of Organic milk that costs over 5 bucks a gallon, left unattended on the kitchen table 3 hours after breakfast was eaten?  Do kids, jump up after eating, and say: breakfast completed!  That super expensive, deliciously cold gallon of milk  that came right out of the fridge, doesn't need to go anywhere.

Bye!  I'm off to play/school/ hang the toilet paper roll incorrectly. What the H-E-double hockey sticks.

Have you ever found one of your kids bawling their eyes out on the second day of school, while her twin sister, has seemingly had "the BEST day of her life"?!, (no names shall be used to protect the innocent)

It's like observing a live reenactment of Comedy/Tragedy.


In a different life, on another planet, in a place that does not exist in reality, I would receive answers to these questions.  But for the time being, I remain bewildered by these conundrums that have taken over on the daily in my home.


Riddle me this:  why do my girls leave smelly, crunched up, dirty socks stuffed inside their shoes, at the end of the day?  This one makes me really ponder my very existence.

Like will they wake up tomorrow after a sound slumber, and say, "Gosh, I can't WAIT to put on those nasty ass socks I wore yesterday, that have been marinating in my own foot juice overnight!"  

For the love of yo Mama, I know it's an entire additional 2 steps, but please put them in the dirty laundry basket.  I'll even pay you...by letting you live.


Parents of daughters, you will relate to this one:  why are there so many hair bands littering my entire house?  Pink hair bands on the kitchen table, stuck in a fresh puddle of syrup from this morning's pancakes and next to the $5 warm gallon of organic milk.  Blue hair bands on the bathroom floor.  Multi colored hair bands under any, and all beds, including my own.  Glittery hair bands stuffed into underwear drawers.  Nasty hair bands washed up in the tub drain, matted with tangled, and slimy wet strands of hair. Hair bands crusted with toothpaste that someone smeared all over the bathroom counter.  Hair bands knotted in shirts, to make said shirt fit more snugly. (WTF?!!!)

And my personal favorite...hair bands used as adhesive "belts" on hundreds of small stuffed animals to hold toilet paper clothing in place.

It's like Hansel and Gretel... but no bread crumbs...just HAIR BANDS.

Why is Charlotte hugging me so much lately?  Not like, a sweet, little snugly hug.  But more like a constant and needy, incessant smothering, 'I'm here to suck the ever loving life out of you',  hug? What's happening?  Is she regressing?  Is something going down at school?  Is this just a phase?

 HEY!!  Is that a hair band in her shirt?!!!!!

Why do the Bigs routinely ask, "Mooooom, have you started (your period) yet?

 Like I'm the Mother Ship of Menstruation.  The Ovulation Boss Lady.  The Timekeeper of Uterine Wall Shedding?

 It's like these teenage girls are  full of raging hormones that make them irritable, hangry for carbs and sugar, while simultaneously, wanting to take a 4 hour nap in the middle of the afternoon,

 And they turn to me like I'm the Period Gate Keeper.  I want to shake my fist and shout, "I'm just a Peri-menopausal mother who lives in a shoe, with too many children, and I may have a hot flash at any given moment, and doesn't know what to do."

If you're a dude, and don't get any of this, just a heads up:  typically, the oldest female in the tribe, sets the "tone" so to speak.  The Elder is  the beacon, and our ducklings follow our lead.  Simply put:  we start, and they follow.

Still not with me?  Watch any female sports team for a month. You'll become an expert at this.

At this point, it's all coming to fruition:  my understanding of why back in the day, women went into a Menstrual Hut for a week to cycle together.

 In fact, I'm thinking we should bring that back.  Put me in a tent, where I can put my feet up, read People magazine, and eat crap food that I neither cooked or prepared.  A place where everyone hangs the toilet paper roll correctly, puts the organic milk back in the fridge without being prompted, and actually uses hair bands for pony tails, all while placing their dirty socks in the laundry basket.

Sounds like a DREAM.

Be

As Cosette and I embarked on an evening stroll after dinner one night, out of sheer curiosity, I inquired about fourth grade, "So, how's school going Co?"

"Oh Mom," exaggerated sigh,  "my teachers love me!" Cosette explained without apology.  I stifled a laugh, and asked, "Hmm, Cozy, why do you think that is?"

A nano second of thought passed, "Well, Tommy and Katie went to Booksin back in the day.  Then the twins were next, and Emma followed in their footsteps, and the teachers loved them.  It's like this Walsh Legacy..." she trailed off for a moment, and then came back, "so you know, I got to keep it going for Charlotte."

Before I could even comment on her genuine display of kindness in regard to her younger sister, Cosette brought her thoughts to full disclosure, "That way, when Charlie rolls in, since she's the last one," Cozy threw her arms up in the air to really make her point, "she can just screw it all up."

True story...help me.

On a different night, on a different walk, with a different daughter, Abigail, the oldest of our tribe (but only by 15 minutes to her twin, and only because the doctor asked me to stop pushing, you know, so they could just "check" Bella's position...CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?  I'm like, "Hey Doctor-man, I got my game face on, pushing out babies and what not, and you want to do an ultrasound to check 'BABY B'?  I'll tell you exactly what position Baby B is in:  she is straight up laid out on a lounge chair, relaxing pool side, holding a Pina Colada in one hand and a People magazine in the other, because her womb mate, who had been secretly eating all of her Organic peanut butter for 9 months, clearly labelled with HER name,  FINALLY got a  job, and moved OUT."

Sorry.  What was I talking about?

Oh yes!  Abby, who is matching me in size, inch per inch, and pound per pound...but like, she's waaaaay cuter :)  I love these after dinner strolls because it is prime one on one time with the girls.  I get to find out the deets of life, with no other sisters chiming in with their opinion.

Here are some things that humble me regarding this child in particular:  although Abigail tore her ACL, and fully understands she will be off the Basketball court for up to a year, her attitude is positively amazing.    Case in point:  the surgeon explained to Abby, she needed to be off crutches at least one week prior to surgery (she walked into his office on 2 crutches).  By the time we left a mere 30 minutes later, she was already practicing walking on just one, and kept saying as she paced the halls of Kaiser, "I'm so proud of myself, Mom".

Fast forward two weeks, she's off crutches all together. Her surgery isn't for 3 more weeks!  In the same week, her range of motion in the injured knee, has gone from 90 degrees to 138 degrees!

Give Abigail a challenge, and this kid sees an opportunity to  rise up every single time.  It humbles me.

But when the topic turns to getting her driver's permit, something she really doesn't feel particularly motivated to do, a different side of Abby, but one that's just as true, emerges.

"Mom, why am I going to worry about driving?  I mean, being in a car, that could like kill another person, while I'm driving it, sort of freaks me out.  Why should I go through all of that, when Bella can just drive me around?  Or you and Daddy?  Plus, I won't have to have to pay for car insurance, or gas!"

See?  See how the eldest thinks?

Abby knows darned well that Bella was the one poking and prodding about the online driving permit course.  Abby knows that Bella is hell bent on getting her license, so life doesn't pass her by.  And you know Abby's like,  "I'm just gonna ride on your coat tails, younger twin sister by 15 minutes. And yo, give me a ride.  And no, I don't have any gas money."


Although I see Abby's point, it is not a vision I shared as a 16 year old back in the mid 1980's.  As a teenage girl, with my big bangs, and my ability to make poor choices, driving represented straight up FREEDOM!

Freedom to leave parents in the dust, telling them we were going to the movies, when in actuality, we cruised around looking for cute boys. or cruised into a Taco Bell to eat a Bean Burrito, or cruised over the hill to Santa Cruz, looking for cute boys AND Bean Burritos.   (Dad, in case you're reading this, I  just heard about other teenage girls engaging in this irresponsible behavior, I never participated).  Okay, maybe once.  Or more than once.

But Abby's not interested in driving, cute boys, or bean burritos.  Not one single bit.  At least, not yet.

And all of these children, are the main reason, that in the wee hours of the early morning, while the  girls still slumber, I start each day with prayer: like a lot of prayer.   Mainly, for survival purposes.

The offspring understand that if they do rise up, and happen to wander back into our bedroom, (the prayerful/meditation place, depending on whether I'm talking to the JC, or Dee Pak Chopra is guiding me, reminding me that I'm okay just the way I am, and that the Universe is totally on my side, and the like), the girls are not allowed to disrupt the Zen by even uttering a word.

So last week, when Charlotte stumbled in, still half asleep, donning wrinkly Ariel pajamas, curly, red haired bed head, and missing a handful of teeth, she just crawled up into my lap and didn't dare make a sound.

And within a matter of 10 breaths, we were one, she and I.  Inhaling and exhaling, we were just together, as Mama and daughter.  Our embrace reminded me to just be ...before the day really got rolling, while life was still quiet and the sun not quite risen, to just be.  Before I embarked on a run to get a work out in.  Be.  Before I called Booksin to tell them Cosette was legitimately absent a week ago, but I just remembered yesterday.  Be.  Before I returned a knee brace purchased for Emma, but didn't provide adequate support.  Be.  Before changing all of Abby's pre-assigned morning PT appointments at Kaiser, because apparently they think she's a grown woman, who has accrued paid sick leave, not a Sophomore in High School prepping for Finals, who can't miss school.  Be.


 Be is this moment with your toothless 5 year old.  Because you will never have this same morning, in this same place with this same child, again. Ever.  

The Zen was broken with Dee Pak Chopra telling us to "release the mantra", but he doesn't really have to remind me, because I usually forget the mantra 2 seconds after I hear it....SQUIRREL.

It was then, Charlie exhaled calmly, gave me a little squeeze, hopped off my lap, before getting dressed for school, and said, "Snuggling always makes me feel better, Mama."

The feeling is totally mutual Red.  Thanks for the reminder :)

Whispers

The 5 year old Red Head perched in my lap, as we sat on the beach, waiting for the sun to fade out of sight, and fall beneath the horizon.  We both understood the special-ness of this time of day that was just about to slip between our fingers.

That  moment when day becomes night.  The sun disappearing from view symbolized that the Earth would be bathed half in light and half in a blanket of darkness.  And for my Tribe,  represented the close of yet, another blessed 75 degree day in February, spent at the beach.

And that is when she asked, for what must have been the 10th time, "Mama, what's for dinner?"

I paused, and took a long drawn in breath, trying to remain calm.  I was holding onto my patience like a crumpled, worn out Kleenex that you find in the bottom of your pocket, as you are searching for one inch on unused tissue...all I need is just one inch of patience to answer this question for the 10th time.

"Charlotte," I said, voice lowered, pulling her in close, "I feel frustrated when you ask me the same thing over and over again, because my answer is the same.  I need you to be a better listener.  Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She looked at me, leaned back into my chest, and focused her attention on the sun which was about to set, and now resembled a melting pat of butter on a pancake, hot off the griddle.

"Yes, Mama.  I think my brain is just stubborn and forgets.  I'm sorry about that.  I know that you are a very hard working Mama.  And that, well, you have a lot of kids.  It's my stubborn brain," she finished up.

What is a parent even to say to that?  When you figure it out, will you please shoot me a text because I still haven't responded.

Thus far, 2016 has been the year of Retreats.  Honestly speaking, I do love me some Retreat time.  I love unplugging from laundry, and making dinner, and keeping the dog from eating the mailman.  I love how the urgency of getting stuff done (answering email, buying more milk, paying the PG&E bill before they shut it off), dissipates while on Retreat.

Retreats are like a bonafide EXIT from the responsibilities of life.  Retreats offer much needed down time, some quiet reflection, getting your Spirituality on (if this is what you desire), all while someone else  is cooking you breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  You feeling me?

And from what I understand, there are all sorts of different kinds of Retreats.  Maybe you want to go to a Yoga Retreat.  How about a Spa Retreat?  There are probably even Wine Retreats.  And if there aren't, I totally need to capitalize on that shit, like yesterday.

I bet you're feeling like you wanna go on a Retreat right about now, huh?  Well, I don't blame you for a second. And in fact. I highly recommend it (right after you finish reading this very informative and life altering blog).

I was blessed enough in January to go on a Mother Daughter Retreat offered through Notre Dame.  Oh. My. Goodness.  Not only did I enjoy the time spent with Abigail and Isabella, but I so very much loved meeting the other Mama's and daughters in attendance.

Fairly quickly, I came to understand something:  we are all just trying to figure this relationship thing out.

Daughters honestly and vulnerably shared that they are feeling stressed and pressured about staying balanced with academics, sports, and extra curriculars, all while trying to apply for college, and plan their futures. It's like this cloud of anxiety, that follows them, some of it coming from home, but much if it, self induced.

Moms were shocked by this.  Many of us had absolutely no idea that our girls had this constant sense of stress.

And Mamas?  Well, we feel the same exact way, except regarding parenting, and working, and like being happily married.  Half the time, we don't know what the hell we're doing,  We make a decision that we think is best for our kiddo, but there's like no manual, you know?  And we're left thinking: "God, I hope I'm doing okay.  I hope I didn't totally mess that up."

Our daughters had NO idea this is how we felt.  This new nugget of information, that Mom is treading water, appearing to know what she's doing, while winning an Oscar for being an amazing actress, was a "Come to Jesus" moment for them.

During group sharing, we were taught that if someone said something that struck you as truth, you could wiggle your fingers in agreement.  Simply, it's called Spirit Fingers. (like Jazz Hands, but like ND style)   Little waves from the digits that said, "I hear you, girl", "Oh my gosh, I thought I was the only one," I'm feeling you my sister!"  And Moms waved their fingers as other daughters or Moms spoke.  And vice versa.  And by the time we left, a brief 36 hours later, one thing was crystal clear: we were bonded.  All 28 pairs of us.

ALL of these daughters felt like they were mine.  In fact, I have since seen some of them on the ND campus or at different functions, and we come together in an excited, messy and unrehearsed hug, or a little wiggle of spirit fingers.  And the twins are so visibly embarrassed by my enthusiasm, that it just makes it all the better.  Because if either one of them turns away from me like they don't know me, that's MONEY!

Just this past weekend, Tom Walsh Super Genius and I attended a Couple's Retreat in one of our favorite places ever: San Damiano in Danville.  Imagine the majestic and lush green mountains from The Sound of Music, ( but a little less Alp-y, more rolling hills) and me as Frau Line Maria.  Except that I cannot carry a tune to save my life.  And I am no nun, nor have I ever entertained that notion.  Also, Tom doesn't blow a whistle for our kids to line up (actually, not a bad idea),

But we DO have waaaay too many kids.  So see?  There is at least one thing we have in common!

Now leaving as a couple for two days, is just a tad bit different, than blasting off by yourself.  There are small people to farm out to multiple locations and people,  plans to be executed regarding pick up and drop off, and clear directions for like not letting the house burn to the ground if  you happen to be a teenager who is occupying, said house. 

You know, the little things.

 In fact, on Friday afternoon, around 4 PM, guess where I found myself?  No, not the Pub silly, but that would have totally been my vote if I was you, too.  Bo and I took a field trip to the vet.  You see, the Beast had a dew claw, hanging on and off his paw, simultaneously.  It was split straight to the quick, and I knew if we waited, infection was sure to set in.  Now mind you, Tom and I were supposed to leave no later than 6 PM, and here I was, promptly handing over my grocery money to the Vet (who is totally saving up for a Yacht), ((and probably just bought her second vacation home somewhere tropical)), (((but I'm not bitter))).

Let me tell you in lay man's terms what $306 will get you regarding your Black Lab: one dew claw ripped off, lots of anti-biotics, a handful of pain meds, one cone of shame, and peace of mind.  I knew I would be thinking about that stupid dog all weekend if I didn't check that off the list.

Finally, at 6:15 PM on the Friday evening of a holiday weekend, we were off: that's code for we sat idly in unmoving traffic. But with no kids chirping in our ears, it was like a mini vacation.  There we were, Tom Walsh Super Genius behind the wheel, and me riding shot gun, listening to the new Serial podcast.  It was so romantic  practical.  And awesome in an extremely simplistic way.

Upon arrival, our dinner plates were handed to us, and we were escorted to join the other couples in the dining room.  We were immediately embraced by the presenting couple, Karla and Richard, and one of our favorite Priests, Father Rusty.

A huge piece of this equation is how this trio interact not only with each other, but the couples who choose to join them on this weekend long adventure.  Karla and Richard have been married for 27 years, have 4 kids, and their love for one another is tangible.   Tom and I especially admire their ability to be transparent and vulnerable in their sharing, all while truly being present and in the moment.

 I am not sure about you, but I don't know many people who have that gift.

Father Rusty, well, I like to think he's a Mystic.  He's part of the Franciscan Order.  I don't know much about the Holy Orders.  The whole ordeal with Priests and Nuns sort of reminds me of  Fraternity/Sorority Rush Week in college.  You pledge, try to impress, pay your dues, probably drink too much, and then, you realize where you belong...or who wants you.  I'm not sure how that all works out.

All of the Catholics who are more knowledgeable than me regarding this topic of Orders (basically, anyone who's breathing, and who's been baptized), stop shaking your fists at me!  I can feel your rage.  I will Google the deets later, and get back to you.  And if I'm coming totally clean here, I was never in a Sorority either.  So I have absolutely no idea what Rush Week is about. But I did dress up for Halloween one year like a tri-Delt.  So that counts for something.

Or not.

Honestly speaking, I have more respect for people who choose a Holy vocation, than I could ever express here.  Just for clarification :)

The first night, Tom and I were blessed enough to light a candle in the chapel representing our intention for the weekend.  As each couple put their candle in the sand bowl, the church walls became illuminated that much more, representing that collectively, our marriages will burn brighter and stay lit longer, if we are in it together.

We also were lucky enough to receive Reconciliation as a couple.

You can re-read that last sentence if you need to.

I know!!  I know you're saying, "WHAT the wha?  WHY would I want to confess anything to anyone, let alone, do that craziness in front of my beloved?!"  Believe me, I was right there with you last year.

I love how I convince myself, "You know Michelle, you're a pretty good person.  You haven't really sinned that much," And soon as we begin walking over to the Chapel, shit starts to get real.  And the tears come.

And I realize that I  harshly judge myself and others.  And that I lose my patience far too quickly with my children and Tom.  And that I have negative thoughts about myself and others.  And that I have a mouth like a sailor.  And the tears continue to flow.  And I realize that I am human. And I make mistakes, and that's okay.  Because I am still lovable, even with all those scars, and marks, and flaws.

And after that, WE DRINK WINE because Confession is very hard work, and if anyone deserves a drink, it's someone who just aired out all their dirty laundry.  And the weekend closes on Sunday with the renewal of our vows.  And it's really beautiful.  And it reminds me of the very first time Tom and I said yes to each other 18 years ago.

 And I know it's cliche, but I love him so much more now, than I did then.

And with the chaos of raising kids (while hoping we're not completely screwing them up), trying to put food on the table, (to feed the small Army of offspring we have created together),  communicating lovingly and openly about all topics (emotionally draining, and not for the weak of heart), I find peace in knowing that Tom loves me completely.

And even more importantly, he loves me unconditionally.

Each of these Retreats have delivered these little whispers of truth.  And all I need to do is show up, be still, listen, and be willing to receive the goodness.








  

Love Hard.

Openly.  Honestly.  Vulnerably.  Without regret.  Because nothing is promised.

 Nothing.

 A few years ago, my husband, Tom Walsh Super Genius, attended 6:30 AM mass every morning.

You see, our son, Tommy, a Corpsman in the Navy, was on his first of three tours in Iraq at the time.  And so Tom, went to church each day to pray.  For strength and courage for T.  For faith and acceptance for himself.  Because I believe this is faith:  accepting a circumstance, regardless of the outcome, and knowing, deep down, everything really will be okay.

While attending mass at St.Chris each morning, Tom met a woman named Flo.

Flo is 91.  Tom is not.  But age didn't matter.  Because Flo is like light and love and beauty all rolled into a real live human being.   And well, Tom is sort of like that too.  And so, you can see, how these two beauties would naturally connect.

Flo has hair as white as the fallen snow, styled into a little bob cut.  Her cheeks glow from the inside out.  And her jubilant blue eyes, well, they tell a pretty special story about her 9 decades on this Earth,  without saying one word.  You can't help to not be drawn towards Flo.

Sometimes, Tom would bring Emma, Cozy, or Bella with him to church before school, those many years ago, because the girls adored that one on one time with Daddy.  (Abby and I, being the sinners of the group, preferred sleep, and asked them to pray for us).  And so, Flo, slowly but surely, began to meet and become acquainted with each member of our tribe.

Our last meeting of circumstance at church, took place on Christmas Eve.  As our family sat, taking up an entire pew, waiting for mass to begin, in walked Flo, who slipped in two rows in front of us.   Immediately, Bella got up to embrace Flo and invite her to sit with us.  Charlie, seeing an opportunity for hospitality, followed her big sis, and before you knew it, the priest was walking down the aisle.  Mass had begun.  And the trio of Flo, Bella and Charlotte sat together, while the rest of our family, perched a few rows behind.

 It was like this little miracle that I was blessed enough to observe.  Flo, smiling from ear to ear, while Bella patiently held Charlotte on her hip.  It was beautiful, really.

After mass ended, Flo invited us to her home to hear some music that she had written, and wanted to play on the piano for us, that very night.  But having it be Christmas Eve and all, we set a date for Sunday, mid afternoon, two days later.

When we arrived, I observed almost immediately, Flo's home was immaculate.  Flo had made sure her Christmas lights were lit up brightly on her tree, and that her manger was set up, just so.  She even had a lamp placed so that Jesus had sort of a spotlight on him.

She explained, "Oh, I just love having the manger set up.  But I need to remember to turn this lamp off when I go to bed, because it makes this moss here, on the manger very hot"  We all nodded in understanding, and I thought silently, "Oh my God, I hope Flo doesn't go up in smoke one night."  But then I was like, "Jesus totally has Flo's back."

As we entered her kitchen, she explained that she had made a cake from scratch, which included a secret ingredient.  Carefully, she cut and served each of us a piece on fancy dishes, with cloth napkins.  Even the table cloth had been ironed.

"I want you all to have a slice of this cake and see if you can figure out what the secret ingredient is," she said, with a glint of anticipation in her eyes.

 I was sort of hoping it was Bourbon, or Tequila, or anything with a high alcohol content.

The girls started calling out like we were on a game show, and NONE of us got it.

"Carrots!" No.

 "Zucchini!"  Nope.

"Coconut!" Flo shook her head back and forth - the universal sign for NO.

Finally, we all threw up our hands, and proclaimed, "We give up!  Tell us what the secret ingredient is, Flo!"

She smiled, the way that someone who has a secret that they are about to share with you would, head cocked a bit to the side, leaning in, gleaming cheek to cheek.  "It's beets,"  she said patiently, but finally relieved to be sharing this news.  Then she explained how she couldn't find fresh beets at Safeway, and hoped that canned beets would be okay, but wasn't sure of the measurement because the recipe called for a cup.  And would one can of beets be sufficient?  She had better get two cans to be on the safe side.

And as Emma cleared the dishes, and Cosette and Charlie came and went through her sliding glass door into her backyard, Flo told us about her life.  Flo raised two kids, a son and daughter, for the most part, solo.  Flo's husband, became very sick in his early 40's, and the doctors could not diagnose the illness, that piece by piece, was stealing his ability to live.

I tried walking in Flo's shoes for a moment, and it was incomprehensible.  Two small children, and one extremely sick husband, with absolutely no diagnosis or treatment in sight!  I know if I was Flo, I would have felt incredibly scared, resentful, angry, worried and FRUSTRATED!

In fact, Flo had to find a job to support her family, and quick.  Luckily,  by the grace of God, she found employment working at the phone company while her kids were in school, but home in time to cook them a hot meal.  After work, but before dinner, she would go to the library and read medical texts, looking, scouring, hoping to find an answer to cure her ailing husband.

And she did find the answer.  And doctors did come to help.  But it was too late.

When I asked her, "Flo, you are so calm while you're speaking about this.  What do you attribute that to?"

Without hesitation, "My faith, prayer, and meditation."

And I'm telling you what: when a 91 year old woman is dishing out that kind of info, it's time for me to start taking notes.

Next, it was time to make our way into the living room, where Flo wanted to share some music that she had written.  "I didn't even know I could write music, but then one day I just figured, why not?"

I began to love this lady more and more, by the second.

Flo had never remarried, because she just wasn't interested.  She had already loved and lost "the one".  But she shared how she had gone on a cruise in her late 80's (not to be confused with the 1980's), and met a very nice man.  A man who doted on her.  A man who paid attention to her.  A man who danced with her into the late evening and early morning.  She never knew her heart could feel this way again.  And when she returned home, she knew immediately, she had a story inside of her to be poured out on the piano keys.

We all listened, mesmerized, as she played 3 songs, all dedicated to this brief period of time in her life.  She played with her heart, vulnerably, and telling her truth about how she felt from this experience...all through music.

"Flo, what happened to this guy?"  "nosy/no boundaries" me asked.

"Well, we lost touch, and I heard he remarried another woman.  But, you know, I am okay with it.  I was just surprised that a man could still make me feel that way."

Sigh.  Wow.  Acceptance in it's most perfect form.

Like, if I was Flo, I would have stalked that guy...big time.  I would have sent letters declaring my love.  I would just randomly show up at his barber shop, while he was getting a hair cut/nose and ear trim, because, well, you know, 'I just happened to be in the neighborhood.'

Not Flo. She has class.  Acceptance.  Faith.

She played a song she had written for her daughter, all the while, telling the story behind the notes, sometimes singing or humming along.  Flo narrating, "And here's the part where she rises up from her divorce, realizing she'll make it, she'll survive!" big, hearty keys being played.

YES!!  I believe you, Flo.  She rose up, and continues to rise up because you're her very awesome-sauce mom.

Just as we are making our way to leave, Flo noticed that Charlotte had been quietly looking at a doll, perched in a rocking chair, near her fireplace.  "Would you like to take that home with you Charlie?  It's about 50 years old, and was made by a very dear friend of mine."

Charlie lit up, and nodded, with an enthusiastic YES!

Flo, then, took each of our daughters one by one, into her painting studio.  Yes, Flo also paints, and continues to take painting classes, because I guess even at 91, she continues to be open to learning and discovering.  And it was in this room, that she gave each one of our daughters a gift.  Each treasure was different, but these were things, that she no longer needed to hold on to, and was grateful to pass on.

I looked at Tom, and glancing back, we had the same epiphany: she is getting ready to go.  Flo is dotting her i's and crossing her t's.  And doing so with grace and love.  But more importantly, with gratitude.

Because Flo has Cancer.  But she's not scared.  At her age, she has chosen life over the standard treatment that would most likely kill her before the disease.

Flo prays.  Flo meditates.  Flo receives Reiki healing through her son.  Flo has faith in a divine plan.

You see, we lost someone in our family about two weeks ago.  Tragically.  Unexpectedly.  Without rhyme or reason.  My cousin's 19 year old son, PJ,  was killed in an accident.  He had just gotten off a shift at  work, at an elderly care facility.  It was  3 o'clock in the afternoon on a Monday.  I never knew PJ, but this is what I have heard about this remarkable young man:   PJ was the Valedictorian of his graduating class the year before.  He was going to college and knew that he wanted to study medicine, working in either Pediatrics or Hospice.  PJ, without question, knew he was loved.

And yet, he was taken.  Without explanation.  Without understanding.  This child who had given so much in the short time that he graced us with his presence.

And so, Charlotte and I have been praying very hard each night for the Francois family.  We pray for his loving parents, Peter and Shari, as no parent is made to endure such an inconceivable loss.  We pray for PJ's brother and sister, Ashley and Spencer.  We pray for his grandparents, my Uncle Jim and Auntie Nancy, who were always there, without fail, for Foxy and my family, as my own mom battled Cancer.  We pray for Shari's parents.  We pray for his Auntie Nanette and Mark.  And we pray for his long time love, who he would have most likely, married, as they were high school sweethearts.
We pray for clarity, and peace, and comfort in such a devastating and confusing time.  We pray for PJ in Heaven.

Each morning, I wake, it feels like someone has punched me in the stomach.  I'm constantly thinking about Pete and Shari, and I ask, "Lord, please shower them with your grace.  Please let them feel your presence in this dark time.  Please walk with them."

 A few nights ago, Charlie looks at me, and says, pondering "Mama, I know that you're my Mama now.  But I just can't remember who my Mama was before you," like this wasn't her first rodeo.  She had done this "life" thing before.  Which I'm totally down with, by the way.  But I certainly have never discussed this spiritual philosophy with my five year old.

"Well baby, next time we come here, how about you be the Mama, and I will be the daughter," I suggest.

"Mama," she says with an exhausted sigh, "when we die and go Heaven, we get to choose to be a daughter or a son.  I will have to make that choice, as your mom," she finishes up.

I'm thinking Caitlyn/Bruce Jenner would have totally appreciated a heads up on that.

In other words, life here is a blink.  A whisper.  A song.  A vapor.

 And nothing is promised.

Without a doubt, PJ left this earthly world, knowing he was loved.  Loved by all of his family, loved by his friends, loved by his girlfriend, and loved by the elderly folks that he cared for at his work.  Many of whom, I'm sure he will greet as they transition to The Other Side.

And PJ continues to be loved by the very one that created him.  I don't doubt this, not even for a second.  This morning I was awakened by an extremely authoritative voice.  It said clearly but with conviction and without question, "Rest assured.  PJ is walking with me now."

And for the first morning in almost two weeks, that pit in my stomach disappeared.

Love hard.  Openly.  Honestly.  Vulnerably.

And without regret.