I've Already Faked it 3 Times Today

The waiting room was full last week at the health clinic, and when I finally had my turn at the receptionist's desk, she handed me a clip board. "We need this filled out for the new year," and she pushed the paper to my hand. I stared at the sheets and had no idea what this information was that they needed, I mean, I just handed her my card. I took the forms and filled in what I could but it might as well have been a travel application to Mars. I brought the clip board back to her and laughed that same weak laugh my kids do when they are without a clue, "Oh, hahaha, pretty sure I did this right. Let me know if it's not, haha." And then I ran back to my row of chairs before someone else took my place.

I had faked it. 30 days into the new year and I have already begun to pretend I know what's going on.
---

This morning at exercise class, there was an instructor subbing for our regular, Jan. I go when Jan is there because she always calls out directions and moves so I can put my brain on automatic and concentrate on keeping blood clots away. I rely on Jan telling me when to go right with my hip twist. But with Sandy, today, we were on our own. By the ten second mark of Pharrell Williams' "Happy" I knew this was a solo mission. It didn't take long for me to figure that out, the way I was face to face with the woman next to me every third beat was a clear enough clue. But I kept on faking it, arms up in imitation of others and legs out when I caught an orange running shoe fly up into my peripheral vision. I knew it while I was doing it, and I thought it through the rest of the class, I am the biggest faker on the planet, look at Sally over there - she has the decency to stop and not pretend she knows where to put her left foot when coming out of the daisy chain.

50 minutes later, I had faked it through Total Body Conditioning like the intro to ballet class I took as an elective in college thinking it'd be nothing but stretched out arms and out-toeing. [here's a good spot to insert the weak laughter from paragraph one] [here, let me: hahahahahaha]

I shook my head as I drove home, how old am I? Am I still that 5-year-old kindergartener sitting at the craft table all disoriented about how the other kids know which fingers to put through the handle of the scissors? The answer is evidently yes.

My life is fakery and how is it that other people know what to do? I came home to open my emails and the one from our soccer team was marked priority. Clicking it open it has a schedule for practices along with the words "red/blue as usual, let me know if you got this." I reply back "Got it!" with no idea what is supposed to be red/blue. The fakery here is high level alert because the team manager, the one from where these emails originate, is my husband. It's a scary thing the portals that open when we allow fakery in.

It's just a bit past noon, and I've had a good talking to with myself. I'm trying to zero in on just what faking brings me, because the very reason we choose behaviors is that they reward us in some way. Faking the happy dance and pretending I know what I need to do for soccer, what's the pay off? That's a hard one to answer.

Some fakery, however, is obvious. The third time for the big F, was about 10:30ish today, when I saw someone I know through someone they know, in other words I wouldn't recognize this person if you plucked them out of the setting that is the only place I ever see them in.

As we stood feet apart in the grocery store this morning, grabbing our bread and oranges and microwave popcorn before the predicted snowfall of 4-6 inches strangles us homebound tonight, she asked me if her snow pants were too much. I looked down at her legs, pressed my lips together at what looked like to me, plain old cotton leggings. "They look fine, fine." "Oh, good. I was worried, Andrea," she started, "I mean, yes they were originally $260 but they are Les Moise. We don't leave for Granby until March, but I just had to break them in. They're less constricting-y and not as shiny-y as Gorsuch."

I just nodded, "Yah," and had already quit caring she called me Andrea. I had just faked it for the third time.

I had no idea what Les Moise is and I have even less of an idea wherewhichwhat Granby is. I am without knowledge of the binding iridescence of Gorsuch.

The big reward in choosing to fake it this time? That's an easy one. Obviously not having to sit through any answer from her that is Les Moise-y and Granby-y.

 

Go Ahead, You Can Miss Them

They're our children. Our son, our daughter. They are our family, and we're their parent. For a long time, we were more than their main caretaker. We loved them, adored them, obsessed and fussed over them--so star struck in love with them that every eyelash length, we knew. Every freckle and its placement on their arm, we knew.

We were the only ones they wanted when all they knew was that they wanted. "Only mommy," my children would say when someone else stepped in to bathe them, dress them, feed them. 24 hour days, from breakfast through to dinner, from waking up through sleep in the night, our children are the undercurrent that hums in our life. They are the hub and all else radiates from that center.

But they grow up, and they start on the path that leads to life on their own. Kindergarten, middle school, camp away, travels alone, first love, college, their own families. They have to.

But somehow, if we shed a tear and say that we miss our children, we're told that we smother. That our tears are selfish and crippling and we should feel shame for how we sickly cling. As if our tears are a twisted prayer for time to hold off and keep our children from their own lives.

All I've wanted to do in my life is to be real. To leap into the love I have for the ones most important to me by being there, with open arms and an equally open heart, and have a place for them inside of me that will never grow cold.

I spent the first minute that I met my children looking down at them through a blur of tears so thick I couldn't make out their faces. As the nurses brought them to me, I took them in with trembling hesitancy for fear of crushing their small form. I've since held them in a fearless bone-breaking embrace, sobbing hard enough to soak through the shoulders of their clothes as they moved from their first home with me into their first one without me. I know what has made them laugh, cry, be happy, and scared. I know what they liked to eat, what they found funny, their favorite kind of weather and how I knew they were tired by the way their faces grew paler than usual.

When I hear someone's harsh words telling me I should only have one reaction to witnessing my children as they reach milestones, and it should be without tears, I can't understand. Yes, my tears have been part of each step they've taken into their own existence: but it is from overwhelming emotion of having a life spent with them. My goodbye holds within it the one that came before and the one to come after. Why is there no space allowed for new bearings as we see life shift?

My tears were part of the goodbye when I first dropped my children off for their first playdate without me. My tears were there again when I waved goodbye, seemingly forever, as they turned and looked, turned and looked, to see me watching them from the front of our home on their first morning walking to school alone. On the day they first sensed that someone outside of their family liked them, my heart seized goodbye then when I caught a flash of secret smile meant only for them.

I say a thousand goodbyes a thousand different times, and each one with tears, as my children practice and discover life without me. I breathe a shaky goodbye one breath of love at a time. I say goodbye for every treasured second of their days spent with me. I whisper a watery-eyed goodbye that is not visible to them with each step they take into their own, setting the words to the wind knowing they'll carry through and surround them.

And when I'm gone from here, I will have said enough goodbyes in my lifetime that I am confident will fill the silence in my childrens' hearts. They will hear my warbly-voiced on the edge of tears words I love you I miss you I am so glad my life was with you.


Why are we shamed for weeping as we witness our childrens' lives unfold? There is joy and gratitude that cannot be held within a pat on the back and a hug of congratulations. To have had such a life, spent in such a privileged place in someone's life!

What other outlet is there that can speak in a language adequate enough to translate for a heart that bursts wide with pride, excitement, appreciation and love for them--if not one's tears?

I will not be shamed for crying tears over my children. Because I know every memory, hope and wish that exists in each hot drop that falls for only them.

 

* * * 

 

You can find more of my writing here:

 

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Things Yelled at Me during Zumba

From my long running series, McSweeney's Rejects:
---------------------------

No bone weary in here! This is not Sit and Be Fit!

Arms up! Hoooooooooold. Arms up! Hooooooooooooooold. Two more! Ha! I lied! Ten more!

Don't drink the water here it's an old building I can't guarantee there's no rust in the pipes!

Organize your moves! Plan for your arms, people! Your arms shouldn't come at you in surprise!

Uptown Funk You Up! UptownFunkYouUp. I have no idea what Funk You Up means but it doesn't sound good!

I love Neil Young! Oh wait. I mean Annie Lennox. I get those two mixed up. Both such sad people.

Down down down down dow-n. Woohoo. That's ELO for you. What? He says No? Okay. No no no no no-o. Woohoo. No problem, ladies, he says he'll say it once more before we get off the floor! 

I don't hear anyone clapping on Clap! If you don't clap on the Clap you won't get the full effect of the clap!

Arms up! Wait. Is this Silver? If it's Silver, then arms up. Or down. Whatever is fine.

Work, ladies! Don't let the sweat fool you! It's probably a hot flash!

Come on baby let's do the Zumba! Or Conga, whatever. It's a Latin beat! Oh, and for the record, I'm not saying I think all Latin music sounds the same. You gotta be careful, everyone's so sensitive these days.

Are you all hot? I thought so because I look around me and all I see is a bunch of hotties!

 

Alexandra? I'm going to send Julie back there for you. Julie? Julie, can you go in the back there by Alexandra? We've got some twisty turn moves at the end. So, yah, just go in the back by her. Thanks, Julie.

 

* * *

Just Two Women in the Kitchen

I stretch my legs out from on top of the red vinyl stool. I'm careful to stay on the right because the seat is split and the foam is coming out from the other side, leaving the plastic to jut up and out, like my Abuelita's black knife. I think of how the edge could slice through a tomato like a blade. My father wants to take this chair and keep it in the garage for his tools but I won't let him. The red sparkles shine through the cover and fill the spaces like tiny galaxies.

It is early afternoon and the sun is streaking in through the kitchen windows. I love to be here in the kitchen more than anything. I am so close to where my Abuela is happiest, I stand inches from her in the small room and I don't know how she stops the urge from stepping away so she has space.

When people's skin gets too close to mine, I feel like I lose the air around me. I have to change how I am and pay attention to how I breathe when someone comes close to me. I don't want them thinking how I am too loud or too fast or that they'll hear my voice shake or say something to me and then I'll have to answer them when they are this close.

Soon, my brothers and sisters will be home from school. My grandmother is getting the rice and chicken started and my baby brother and sister are sleeping. I am waiting to start the most important job, the meal can't begin without my work - that's what my Abuela tells me. I gather the slices of tomatoes and strings of onion that my grandmother has set aside and I toss them into the hot oil in the pan. I jump when the wet from the tomato and onion sizzle and spark as they hit the pan, but I can never say no to the thrill. I go back to my grandmother and her cutting board, I know she will have the garlic smashed and ready for me to carry over in a measured tablespoon. I walk to the stove, my right hand cups under the garlic so nothing tips out. I clank on the inside of the pan to release the garlic in one plop.

Wiping her hands on her apron, my grandmother comes to stand next to me.

“You can go now, mija, the hard part is done.”

“Can I stir?”

“Claro. Si. Of course!" She lifts me up while I hold her weathered wooden spoon, the rim of the edges now burnt brown, and I hear the rasp of my back and forth scraping against the bottom of the pan.

“It's all brown now, Abuelita. The rice can go in.”

"You know just when it is time, little one." I smile and nod, I'm never wrong about the timing of the oil. Setting me down, my grandmother scoops out the rice from the pot next to us where it has been soaking in water overnight. We wait to hear the gurgle of a hard boil and then she stirs everything together, covering rice with water fold after fold. Leaning down, she checks the stove's flame, being sure to lower it to the precise flicker she needs for a simmer.

I set the table with our purple plates, but I wish they were larger. The ones we have aren't big enough to hold the amount of rice I want. Everything is finished and we have time before the rice is ready and we have to leave to get my brother from school.

My Abuela reaches across the stove and pours a cup of espresso, mixing it with warmed milk from the small pot. She divides it into two separate cups and hands one to me. There is an equal amount in both. I blow across the steam the way she has taught me, until it is cool enough to sip. Then I take the first cautious lick. The warmth spreads down my throat and across my shoulders, I feel it slide down filling the entire of my stomach.

We are two women in the kitchen. One is five, the other seventy-five, but we feel no difference. We have earned this time, to blow and sip, while we are across from each other. There is quiet between us, but it is anything but silence.

“Ponque?” she asks, wanting to know if I want cake.

She laughs when she sees my eyes pop open. I love cake and my grandmother knows this, she has hidden a piece for me, away from my five brothers and sisters. “Si, Abuela, Si!” From behind the sliced rolls in the bread cabinet, she has a torte that is wrapped in re-used wax paper. Placing it in my lap, like she's trusting me with a hummingbird, she hands me the square. I open it and see dense baked apple, the white frosting cracks as my teeth break into it.

My grandmother is small, with thick waves of still dark hair. She is awake when I first come down in the morning and she is awake when I go upstairs for the night. She never tires, she never sits. But in these afternoons, while the others are deep in sleep or away at school, she takes time.

Tomorrow's dinner may be pork sausages with quartered cabbage. The day after that a thick oxtail soup. I know the meals will be different, but they will always begin with me doing the most important work. Laying the foundation for everything that is to come when I toss in the tomatoes, the onions, the garlic.

It's the hardest part, my Abuela tells me, and I do it well.

 

* * *

11 Ways I Heard My Children Whisper I Am Just like a Sloth

Photoshopping genius credit: Vikki Reich

Son #1: "Once a week, sloths leave their canopy for a bathroom break."
Son #2:  Just like mom.

Son #1: "Sloths are from South America."
Son #2:  Just like mom.

Son #1: "Sloths will not eat anything without sniffing first to tell if it's rotten. "
Son #2:  Just like mom.

Son #1: "The sloth mother keeps her babies close and concealed from preying eyes."
Son #2:  Just like mom.

Son #1: "Scientists often wonder what the sloth does all day long."
Son #2:  Just like mom.

Son #1: "The sloth's soft underbelly creates a cozy bed for offspring to cling to."
Son #2:  Just like mom.

Son #1: "The sloth is the world's slowest moving mammal."
Son #2:  Just like mom.

Son #1: "The sloth wakes up chilled and will spend the day searching for sun to warm her."
Son #2:  Just like mom.

Son #1: "The sloth's main activity is to hang and munch its favorite foods."
Son #2:  Just like mom.

Son #1: "The sloth will sleep 9 and a half hours at a time."
Son #2:  Just like mom.

Son #1: "The sloth moves only 80 feet--the length of two school buses--in one day."
Son #2:  Just like mom.

* * *

But Can You Dance To It?

Put me in a strait jacket when I'm around Haddaway's "What Is Love." It's the only way I won't move. (while I'm at it, I dare you to not do a single head nod just thinking about this song)

My skull needs to be put inside one of those immobilizer helmets, complete with rod inserts into the neck when Madonna's "Like a Prayer" pops on my car radio. That's if you want me to keep driving safely.

And if my ears pick up on anything by Calvin Harris? Oooph. Then place your bets on me embarrassing myself with out of date dance moves because mama don't care, I am dancing.

But when I think of songs impossible to not dance to, I can't help but think back on those moments when 3:27 on the dance floor felt more like 3million:27. My body herkyjerky from songs my brain couldn't decipher what type of beat signal to fire off to my feet neck arms hips, leaving me stiffer than an unoiled Tin Man. Even 10 years with Abby Lee couldn't help you patch together moves.

Like that time Danny Peterson pulled me to the dance floor. It was last call, and last call by a deejay is always a crap shoot. Flaxen-haired Danny came over and took his chances. The song? Gary Wright's "My Love is Alive." Nice thought for a wrap up, on paper slash vinyl, but "My Love is Alive" had the opposite effect.

First, think of that song.

Second, ask yourself, How do you move to a synthesizer that's set to triple twang punctuated with someone kicking over a milk bucket every ten seconds?

Things syntactically fall apart in the time between your mind decoding deciphering downloading and cobbling together a beat. By the time the neurological signal is complete, Gary Wright is off to setting a new bar code for you to scan. There is no way to time that shit.

See for yourself.
 

The end result is your body giving the All Clear to Shoulder sway right and your feet saying I thought you said Hip twist crouch left. Decades later, I realize the disconnect of music, lyrics, not equaling danceability. Which is why I'm shouting out to the universe for you, sweet blue-eyed Danny Peterson. That night on the dance floor, as if adolescence wasn't clumsy enough, life had to go and throw Gary Wright at you.

Who knows, dear fair-haired suitor, had fate guided the deejay's hands to serendipitously lay down the boogie with Wild Cherry when you pulled me to the dance floor, this post today may have been dedicated to someone else.

But it wasn't as bad as it could get, Danny. By that I mean, at least it wasn't "Dreamweaver."

 

The Clarity of a Red Pepper

"Why is it that we have to wait until we are 50 years old, before we see just how beautiful a red pepper is?," Sandy Dennis says this to Alan Alda in the 1981 movie The Four Seasons.  I say “say” because she wasn't asking. She already knows.

It's not really the red pepper she's talking about. It's the clarity of appreciation for the world that we live in. Looking at things with the wonder that makes everything new, a rebirth of our senses. This year, I feel myself growing into this fresh vision, when I look up at the sky, its expanse, and am overwhelmed. When I stand ankle-deep in summer lake water, my toes sinking into the accepting sand, I am bewitched by the way you can almost smell its coolness. 

This is a new way of living for me. I have lived life in a blur, crossing things off my list of what needed to be done, and diving into the next sheet of must-dos and to-dos. Even when moments of gratitude screamed so loud I couldn't ignore them, I still only spared 60 seconds in whispered thanks. And usually while doing something else at the same time.

It's summer, and my three children are along with me on this turn in my life. What I feel, they hear about. What has now become my extraordinary from the ordinary, spills over into their existence. It's like the walks we used to take, my hand with a smaller hand inside. 

Their sentences were three words then. But what more do you need beyond three words when your heart does the talking for you? I remember my own thinking in those heady days, as I felt their palms press so close to mine, hand-soft-son. My children would speak in the same language, “Mama, look, bird!” We would walk, stopping, squatting to inspect whatever pulled our attention. Flowers, and the petals in each. The sky, its blueness or not. They would see nothing unusual in soaking up the world without any other thoughts but this.

Running on all cylinders, like a machine, multitasking my way through the day, has been my method for decades now. Needing to get as much done in the 24 hours that I had, as I could. And my children have been hanging on as I tear through the minutes with them.

But now, something has flipped a switch. Life has become real, visible, magical. The air I breathe feels like a golden ticket. I find myself wanting to spend the life ahead of me in admiration. I don't want to hurry through anything, not the sadness, misunderstandings, missed opportunities, or the heartbounding joy. I know now that each day is gone at sunset.

Today, it was the local farmer's market that became the source of beauty. There with my children, we walked past crates of purple eggplant, yellow wax beans, red raspberries. I lingered at one stand especially, it was a farmer who had the brightest red peppers I've seen this year. I picked one up and, turning it over in my hand, I passed it to my children. The youngest one took it from me, and as I opened my mouth, he began my sentence for me, “Yes, mom, we know, 'Have you ever seen such a beautiful red pepper?' "

They are right. I do ask them that. But it's only because somehow I've never seen before just how beautiful a red pepper is. 

* * *

When The Twilight Zone Calls

Double Takes.

My formative years were filled, hours of them, in unsupervised marathons in front of the television set. I had a thirst for my favorite series, The Twilight Zone, that was unquenchable.

As soon as an episode ended, I needed another. The big reveal, that moment when we got to see just what took a typical day and transported it into The Twilight Zone, left me without air. The Twilight Zone -- that break in space and time, where we either fall into something or something falls into ours, and whoooosh, we are knocked into another state of being.

I felt it every time right along with the actor on screen. The closest words to describe that split in being is this, whatever you just heard, or saw, or felt, makes you do a double take. You see it once, your head swings away in disbelief because you have to thinkthinkthink, and then you can't help it you need to look again, because: no sense no sense no sense. Your brain can't catch up to the reality of the situation. I'm not a physically demonstrative person, but if I were, then in the moment of Twilight Zone-ism you'd see me flapping my arms like my oven mitts were on fire.

What's that?

How come?

I don't get it.

THIS.IS.TRIPPY.

That is The Twilight Zone.

My children are the biggest cause of me finding myself in a double take, snapping my head back and forth like a cat following a laser pen. My children say something, do something, move their face or the light catches them in a moment where I can only open and close my mouth and stammer wha wha wha.

Of course, my three boys – some days more than others, look like me. But it's not the physical make up of who they are, nor the way they stand with one foot out like I do, not even the mannerism of how they have to smile before they begin talking in the same way I do. Those things are amazing, but they don't knock the wind out of me. It's the things they haven't seen me do, or heard me say, the ones I didn't teach them, that suspend me.

This week, when I went in to wake up my youngest, he opened his eyes and groaned, DANG. And he closed his eyes and rolled to his left side. I heard this, and stopped breathing. Because it's hard to breathe and freak out at the same time. My hairs stood on end because the word Dang is the first thing that leaves my lips every morning, but I say it to myself, alone, far away from everyone. He's never been with me at that point when night's rest ends and the day's bugles begin. And yet he just said it.

The Twilight Zone.

My middle boy will only eat one food at a time. I watch him and I know I've never talked about this, nor instructed him to do this, and there he sits: meat first, then the starch, finally, the vegetables, fruit comes last. Always in that order. We don't eat breakfast together, he has lunch at school without me, and dinner happens while I'm already at work some nights. But... the order of preference for food consumption. Identical.

Doodoodoodo doodoodoodoo

Most people can motivate themselves to do something because it needs to be get gotten done do it already. Me? I need the fire of a deadline singeing my hairs. The day I read a text from my oldest in college saying “Hey. Just found something out about myself. I need to have things due for me to get things done. That's when my work is really good.” Gulp. And yes, oh yes.

AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!! Where how why do they know this???

This all brings us to the close of today's post. How many of us really know what's happening here? Do we watch and learn from our parents? Do our children imitate us, sense our actions, or are things already in our DNA? Are we all just one step away from merging into a sole being??

I don't know! I don't know! What I do know is this - my children are the most mystical, mind-blowing, arresting beings on this planet.

They are the only ones that have taken me to The Twilight Zone. But it doesn't terrify me as the show did -- although that was delicious. It's a different dimension they take me to, one where I feel a world without me at the same time as I feel the brush of my children's lives against mine.

I am reassured, through the goose bumps on my skin, about my legacy. Of course it involves food that can't touch, surly first words in the morning, and a last minute due date as the only sure way to complete a task.

 

What else embodies me more?

The Twilight Zone, an area of indefinite boundaries. Unable to delineate where one existence ends, and another begins. 

 * * * 

You Miss Me, Goodwill, I Miss You, Too

Dear Goodwill,

The first time you sent me an email telling me that you missed me, I deleted it.

That was a year ago.

But now, 12 months later, your emails still come. I know I have to explain.

You miss me. I miss you, too. The reason I haven't been to your store is because my mother passed away.

She was the reason I was at Goodwill every Sunday. My mother and I would move along together, she using the shopping cart to push herself forward and give her freedom without the walker that she hated having to rely on. She stopped and examined everything, and with her leaning against the cart, I felt safe enough to give her time on her own, while I shopped the next aisle over. All the while, I'd be checking in, calling out to her across the sweaters and belts, “Did you find something you like yet, mama? Oh, here let me bring this skirt over for you to see.”

“I am fine, m'ija (my daughter) I see so many things for the children. But I do like red jackets. If you see one, let me see it. I love a red jacket with everything.”

“We'll keep looking, mama, but I haven't seen one yet. We have the whole afternoon free.”

Confident in the shopping cart's sturdiness, she would shuffle her feet along. I would hear nothing but her soft Spanish murmurings, “Ah, look at this one. This is something I remember having.”

Our trips here were a reason to be out without needing one. Goodwill was the only place where my mother could be nostalgic, feel the familiarity in the days gone before, and be able to find something to take home to my three children. She would always find a sweater for herself, and would tell me to treat myself to a purse or a scarf. She would pick up a vest for my husband, "He is a good man, I want to bring him something." A gift meant love to my mother. Love was not an easy word for her to say, but Goodwill, you did it for her.

Your store made her feel like a millionaire. She was able to buy anything there, a bag full of purchases, with a senior discount, was never more than she could afford. She would call my name, and I would come to her side, listening to her stories about the item she had found and how she had that very same red plaid thermos when she first came to America.

Not all of our time was spent reminiscing. A fair amount of our conversations were me talking her out of the same set of miniature owls made of seashells.

 

"These little owls, there are perfect for your bathroom. Look, there are three, one for each of your children!"

 

"No, mama, I have enough stuff. I don't want any more stuff in my house."

 

"But, look, they are so cute. I want to buy them for you."

 

And so it would go. She would hold the small seashell owls in her hand. I would tell her no. And she would place them carefully back on the wire shelf, until the next week when she would again look at them. 

For 18 months of Sunday afternoons, my mother and I worked the aisles of Goodwill. In every kind of weather. It was a ritual that persisted until the week before she passed away, after being in hospice only 21 days.

On our last Sunday there together, how could I have not known to celebrate it? I should have felt something.

If only there had been a whispering, a nod from somewhere, to let me know, this was the final time of walking side by side, talking to her across the aisles.

I would have lingered longer. And I would have nodded yes to the little owls made of seashells.

 

* * * 

Oomancy: Food for the New Year

If you were to walk into my childhood home on New Year’s Day, you would see six children tip-toeing around a dining room table, careful to not bump and disturb the tall, clear glasses that had been set on it the night before. They were filled to the rim with still tap water. "You can't move them even a bit!," we would caution each other, "If you do then none of it counts!"

Inside each glass, floating like a plump newborn, would be a globulous raw egg. The water would grow bubbly as it sat over the hours, the strings of congealed egg white taking shape, reaching for the top with their thin strands of arms. I remember thinking how much those gelatinous peaks of egg white looked exactly like the sea monkey habitat ads from the back of my brother’s comic books.

It was the New Year, and my Colombian immigrant family was doing what we do on New Year's Day: egg divination. Oomancy. An egg symbolizes a beginning, and my grandmother, my abuela, would seek to predict our future for the coming year by the power of raw eggs in water. My grandmother lived with us and had been her small Colombian town’s esteemed medicine woman: a bruja buena, good witch. She was in charge of making her town’s monthly coca water (just what you think it is) as well as possessing the knowledge of fortune telling, in this case, via egg whites.

The first thing at midnight on New Year's Eve, my family would fill eight ounce glasses with water. We would then take take a still in its shell raw egg, rub it over our body, hand it to my grandmother who in one sweep of a movement, would crack the egg into our glass. This egg in water ensemble sat undisturbed through New Year's Eve and into the night. Most important of anything, was that the egg remain unshaken, motionless, in the tepid water. Nothing could influence or jeopardize the egg as it wove and dodged, the thick egg white separating from the yolk, stretching to the point of almost breaking as it searched for the meaning in the year to come.

We would awake the morning in the new year, and run to find our abuela. We surrounded her as she took each of our glasses, which we had left sitting on top of square pieces of paper with our names printed by our own hand. One by one, she'd hold our glasses up to the day's light, shifting the angle this way and that. Humming and murmuring, sometimes silent, she assessed the predictions for the new year. The egg white swirls pointing the way to good, or bad, news.

Your swirls could tell you who your future husband would be. If your egg had red spots, someone had put the evil eye on you. The egg white swirls could point to the next  possessor of the oomancy powers. If there was to be a long trip in your future, the peaks of the egg white would form a mountain, making sure you were the first to know and pack accordingly.

* * *

What child could keep something this amazing a secret? If you had a grandmother who was able to interpret egg white strands, you would tell everyone in school, wouldn't you? And so, we did. My five siblings and I came back from Christmas break one school year, with stories to tell, chest bursting proud ones, of my abuela, the good witch with the egg divining powers. And since she did this every year, they were all invited to our house for New Year's! "Bring your own eggs!" we reminded them.

That New Year’s Eve, people did come. They came dressed like Mad Magazine’s Spy versus Spy, incognito in black coats, black head scarves, and black movie star sunglasses; sneakily knocking at the back door, whispering if now was a good time for an egg reading.

None who came seeking were turned away.

They hungrily took in what their egg peaks revealed. Miss Quill, who was my second grade teacher and single, in particular nodded eagerly when my grandmother pointed out that her egg whites were forming a bell shape. Miss Quill, rapt with her lashes just inches from her glass, begged my grandmother, "But Senora Pinzon, please, what does it mean??" In her broken English, my abuela answered back, "... a wedding, una boda, perhaps for you, maybe soon..." My grandmother had to shake her head no as Miss Quill pulled a plastic bag of eggs out of her spy coat pocket, begging for a continuation of the reading.

By everyone's smiles and general cheeriness, my siblings and I knew that our visitors had no idea  what was about to go down next. Your egg divination session didn’t simply end with an individualized reading of your egg white swirls.

No Sir.

After your egg white fortune telling was complete, my grandmother handed you back your glass with the raw egg congealed and wobbling at the bottom. Toast! “Salud!” she would motion with a nod of her head for you to clink your glass with hers, and then 1-2-3 you were to tilt your head back along with her and let that good fortune slide right down the back of your throat, like it was the world's biggest slug. We could stand and peek from behind the kitchen door watching 15 pained gringo egg glottal slammings in a row and it never got old.

***

Years later, my brothers and I went to see the movie Rocky when it first came out. I remember the three of us gasping out loud as we watched Sylvester Stallone take an egg, and in the same precise one-handed manner as my grandmother, he cracked it on the edge of his water glass and plopped the yolk in. Then he sat and studied his glass as the strands of egg white floated upward. The popcorn fell out of our mouths as we turned to each other in disbelief, asking, “Rocky’s Colombian?!"

Who knew.

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That Thanksgiving Day, So Long Ago

My father passed away on Thanksgiving Day. It's a story that I am fortunate enough to be able to share here today. Though this might sound sad, it's actually a story of triumph due to beautiful opportunities and how reaching out, keeps us alive.

I thank The Moth for giving me the surreal moments of sharing my story with so many on their Mainstage. I am forever grateful. You can listen to it here: http://themoth.org/posts/stories/fathers-death

Thank you, everyone, for being a big reason why I tell my stories. It's because you are here, to share them with.

* * *

Rod Serling, King of My Heart

I would have lost TV privileges for a month if anyone had caught me sneaking behind the sofa to watch television late at night, but that's the irresistible fixation I had with a terrifying television series when I was little. It wasn't sci-fi, like Outer Limits, and it wasn't horror, like Alfred Hitchcock, what it was, was something I was ready to risk any form of punishment for.

I'm talking about the Twilight Zone.

As a kid, I hungrily gobbled up every rerun in the "dimension of not only sight and sound, but of mind. A journey into a land whose boundaries are that of imagination ... at the signpost up ahead, your next stop ... the Twilight Zone.”

 

It's the 55th anniversary of the Twilight Zone. Each week, when I would hear the adrenaline-inducing doodoo-doodoo of the Twilight Zone's theme music, I would hide behind the sofa and not a sound would leave my lips as I watched the episodes behind my teen sisters' backs. The episodes lasted 20 minutes, but in that time, Rod Serling created a depth in his stories that made his tales complete. He had no story line that carried over from the week before, and there was no drama series to string the episodes together, but he managed to expertly satisfy us with a recounting that always promised a twist. Oh, you knew the twist was coming, your clenched stomach didn't let you forget that, but you didn't know when, or what, or from whom, and that's what kept you chewing on your fingernails, eyes bugged open, gripping the sides of your chair. Every time the crux of the story was revealed, I came *this close* to giving away my hiding spot with the sound of my gasps.

When my children were old enough to watch the Twilight Zone, which was about ten years older than I was when I shouldn't have been watching, I began our weekly family TZ viewing. On weekend nights, their imaginations and senses are hooked and drawn into supernatural stories that they don't even notice the show is in black and white (often a complaint).

Rod Serling holds you spellbound because the man can tell a story. His everyday character who finds himself in a shocking twisted world made me bite the tips of my fingers off from my secret viewing spot. If something could happen to someone who was as normal as they are, I'd tell myself, then it could happen to me! That was the frightening, yet fascinating, magic right there. You could be that poor victim of an outrageous fate. A bent reality booby trap was possible for any of us! You uncomfortably squirmed as you witnessed their logical mind slowly begin to unravel. I knew I should look away, but I couldn't help myself. I kept watching, my eyes peeking out from in between my fingers.

55 years ago, Rod Serling wrote of things we find ourselves still fearing today: nuclear war, technology dominating our lives, social isolation, prejudice, inhumanity, the government's increasing presence and role in our life. As an adult, I see him as a visionary, but as a little girl, he was the man responsible for my life-long love of storytelling.

As well as for my first nightmares.

If you're barely familiar with the Twilight Zone, before you watch, I have to warn you: You won't easily fall asleep without checking under the bed after seeing my Top Four favorites:

"Eye of The Beholder"
"Young Man's Fancy"
"The Hunt"

And, best for last: "Living Doll."

You will be screaming at the screen, "Turn around!" with the psychological thrill of "Young Man's Fancy". You'll be terrified in ways you didn't think possible. But with "Living Doll?" So not a good idea if you anthropomorphize the toys in your bedroom, much like this once little girl did.

No doll for me, thanks, Mom. Not for my birthday, or Christmas, or any other occasion under the sun.

 

The Cilantro Way

In the kitchen of my childhood, in the middle of our round wooden table, sat an ever present rinsed-out glass herring jar. My abuela had repurposed it to hold her home-made Colombian spicy sauce, called Aji. On sunny mornings, the day's rays glinted off the jar's ruby red cap and sent rainbows shooting out from the raised fish outlines etched on its sides.

Sunday afternoons would find my abuela pulling out her wooden cutting board and with a heavy thud, she'd set it in the middle of the table. Her board had been worn to a caramel brown in the center, and on it, she would begin slicing white onions, flattening garlic bulbs with the edge of a butter knife, dicing tomatoes, chopping cilantro, seeding Aji peppers, and filling our house with the sweet ripe smell of onion and garlic. When the ingredients were ready, my grandmother would take her wooden spoon made smooth with years of use, and mix everything together in a glass bowl for the week's Aji.

My abuelita's Aji wasn't blazingly hot, as the Aji peppers would lead you to believe, but instead it was a condiment that skimmed across your taste buds turning what seemed lifeless before you, rice, soup, potatoes, chicken, alive with a more profound level of experience. All you needed to do was unscrew the jar's squeaky metal rim, reach in with your tablespoon and bring it back up generously filled with the Aji, and spoon atop your food. With a snap of a finger, your meal was abracadabra'd into something that made you smile through a mouth watering explosion of delight.

The Aji peppers never made the original taste of the food disappear. The opposite happened. Your  chicken, your beef, became more -- from something routine to in-the-moment sparkling.

My grandmother is gone now, but the lesson I learned from her then, of how a few embellishments can catapult the ordinary into the stratosphere, has stayed with me. 

 

With some small effort, the surprise addition of the new and novel, an already delicious existence can become spectacular. Like a walk on a misting day without an umbrella, a spontaneous weekend away, or throwing down a blanket unannounced in the living room and spreading out a picnic dinner.

Just a small dusting of lip-tingling unexpectedness and life goes from mundane to thrilling.

 

Just like Aji spooned over a 5 o'clock dinner.

 

Abuelita's Aji

 

1 cup coarsely chopped cilantro leaves

2 seeded, chopped Aji peppers

1 sweet onion cut in strips

2 coarsely chopped plum tomatoes

Juice of three limes

3/4 cup water

1 crushed garlic bulb 

3/4 tsp kosher salt

1/4 tsp ground black pepper

Mix together in a glass bowl. Let sit at room temperature for a few hours, then keep refrigerated in a repurposed glass jar. (it must be a repurposed jar)

 

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Listen To Your Mother Milwaukee 2014 Videos Are Here!

It's just like the holidays. When the Listen To Your Mother Show videos go live, my internet goes wild. Everyone, cast and producers, are sharing. This year, LTYM had 32 shows in 32 cities. Our videos are ready for viewing on our channel, Listen To Your MotherYoutube Channel.

I had the joy of sharing a story again this year in our Milwaukee show. Giving you a feel of life, when your grandmother considers modern medicine, a far cry from anything to be taken seriously.

My piece, "The Medical College of Abuela."

About My Father

I remember some things about my father. Each time I write about him, I feel like he becomes eternal.

I have a post up on Huffington Post today, Each Father's Day, I Remember. When I share my memories, it's as if he's back to life.

Thank you, for reading.

Peace to all of you today, wherever you are in how you spend this day. 

xo

* * *

Sweet Golden Comeback

Just before Christmas over a year ago, Twinkies were pulled off the market.

And I cried.

Because I thought I'd never see them again and I couldn't bear that thought. When I was little, I would watch for my father to come home from work every day. The sight of his familiar short-waisted grey wool coat would send me tearing out of my front door and down the road like a horse from a gate. I’d run down the front steps, holding onto the railing so I wouldn't fall and I'd go, not thinking about temperature, rain, shoes on or not, crying out his name, "Papa!” He'd see me and stand still. He would smirk, knowing just why I had run down to meet him.

Grabbing the speckled grey lunch box from his hands, I’d unclasp the firemen’s latches and look for what he always had inside the bucket for me: a set of my panecitos, Spanish for "my little breads." That's what I'd call them, but they were Twinkies. I couldn't read yet and to my four-year-old eyes, the two golden cakes side by side in a clear package were tiny loaves of bread to me, albeit with delicious cream inside. I wondered why they didn't make the large loaves of bread with this same kind of filling. My Papa knew I loved Twinkies, and he’d save the tiny package of two for me out of his daily lunch. Every day. I had no doubt how important I was to him - his delight in me was clear. He told me not with words, but with the grandest of actions, letting me know he thought of me in his day.

I ran to greet my father after a long day's work for far too short a time. Much too short for a little girl who adored him. He died suddenly when I was in the first grade; a shocking, unexpected suicide. His death so abrupt that no one could get me to stop looking out of our front screen door, waiting for him to come walking down the street, swinging his lunch box.

After his death, I would ask my grandmother to fix my lunch with my "little breads." And she would. She'd set up a small saucer, one Twinkie in the center, and a miniature cup of coffee -- the scene looked exactly the way it did when I'd sit and share my panecitos, my little breads, with my father, who'd carefully slice the little loaves and pretend it was toast.

Knowing this, you can imagine how I gasped that day when I heard the television reports that the makers of Twinkie would be no more. No more panecitos. I went to the store the morning I heard the news and bought the remaining Twinkies on the Hostess shelves, two boxes of 12. But I didn't like having them all at once and knowing there would soon be an end to my supply of 24 filled me with even more sadness than if I had none.

But then in January, I saw the golden bread again. I had gone to the drug store and while I stood in line near the cash register, my mouth dropped open. There with the other snack items, was a single pack of Twinkies! There were Twinkies! The golden loaves of doll-sized bread were back on the store's shelves after the longest months I can remember. I cried at the sight of their beautiful golden color in the same way I cried when I heard they would be no more.

I brought the single package of two home, and sat, in the midst of memories. Every day since, these little loaves of bread are part of my day. I drop my youngest off at school and I stop at the store on my way back home. I pick up my pack of two, my side by side panecitos. From the cabinet at home I pick out a saucer and set out my coffee. Then, I sit down for breakfast with my father.

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The Worst Date Ever or A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Spaghetti and Meatballs

This post is part of a Valentine’s Day blog hop started by the star storyteller, Nancy Kho of Midlife Mixtape. The theme is "My Worst Date Ever." Follow along with some superbly talented bloggers, you'll find them on the list at the bottom of this post. Don't miss More Tales of Dating Misery! Check them out! Happy VD everybody!

* * *

 

What's a crime without a partner?

And if that partner in crime also is your date for a meal, well, then, you've just got The Worst Date Ever. 

My PIC and Worst Date Ever story happened in 1984, and it was with my brother. That's the beauty of a dysfunctional family, PIC's and dates, always within easy reach. Together, we not only kept each other company on holidays and birthdays, but we kept each other alive during my lean, hungry years in college.

My brother had gotten wind of an off-campus outreach church. This church promised free meals in exchange for church attendance. All you had to do was be there. Come, listen, and BOOM, hope your plate is stronger than Chinet brand because mac and cheese is UP! So, one night, while I counted out 99 cents for the all you can eat pancake night at IHOP, my brother suggested we try Will Go To Your Church For Food.

Brother: "It'll be easy, come on."

Me, skeptical, but hungrier: "Nope. Nothing's free."

Brother: "What could happen? We go. We walk out. Or we get fed."

Me, still skeptical still hungry: "Okay, I choose go." And I put my coins back in my hippie purse.

We walk the 1/2 block from campus to the rented out church and we soon spot two fresh faced broad-smiling young adults that we call Ken and Barbie. Ken and Barbie are opening up a sandwich board sign with a shape of a heart drawn out in chalk and the word LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR, written inside it. They see us walking toward them and their faces explode into smiles, “Welcome! W E L C O M E ! Welcome to the hour of salvation. Today's soul saving message brought to you courtesy of spaghetti and meatballs!”

Throw in some garlic bread and salad, and you've just bought yourself a soul, I think to myself.
 

Ken and Barbie: “We invite you to join us tonight, we're glad you're here!"

My brother and I feebly smile back, partly due to low blood sugar, but mostly due to the guilt of knowing we are eating here with no intention of having our heart in their services. What we want is their food in our bellies. I can feel that this is not going to be as easy of a kill as my brother thinks.

"Hey! thanks," my brother greets the lovely duo. "We're glad to be here, too!"

Me: ::mumble mumble Crappity crap crap crap this is soooo not going to work mumble mumble::

Brother: ::hiss Shuttup. We'll be fine. Sit, listen, eat hiss::

Ken and Barbie: "You and your lady friend can join us for fellowship! We'd love to share the message of loving one another!"

I am shaking my head and I already don't like this, but we follow the couple inside anyway. How can things get any worse? I don't want these people thinking my brother is my boyfriend BUT not as bad as I don't want them to think I'm alone and hanging out with my brother. We're only half way down the stairs to the kitchen basement when we smell the meatballs simmering in tomato sauce, and our knees almost buckle. We grab plates and heap them up with steaming pasta and protein-laden meatballs. We take our seats with the rest of the crowd at the red clothed tables, and we listen.

Pasta has never tasted so good. *Side note: if you ever find yourselves bored with life, starve yourself a little. The way food tastes after 12 hours or so of not eating, makes you fall in love with life all over again.* We finish our plates, get up for more spaghetti, and we listen.

We finish our second plates, get up for a fresh salad with red, ripe tomatoes, along with some crusty bread slathered in butter, and we listen.

Dessert time comes and we load up on home-made brownies prepared at the hand of enthusiastic co-eds, along with cheap institutional coffee. We eat, we listen.

We sit and listen while our plump bellies almost lull us to sleep. And then, as we struggle to keep our bobbing heads upright, we're jolted awake. Somehow, between the meet and greet and the boxed brownies, our dinner for free has suddenly turned into the Disappearing Languages Alliance, because we begin to hear sounds unfamiliar to my ear.

Me: "Oh my god, let's go!,” I say because in addition to Nell sound-alikes, there are people collapsing to the floor and doing a stop drop and roll better than any newly fire-film trained second grader. “I think I have four quarters at the bottom of my purse," I say to my brother, "If you're still hungry, we'll go get pancakes at IHOP."

Brother: "Shit. What the heck. Let's GO."

I pick up my purse, my brother puts his shoes back on his feet. We both start sliding our bony butts out of our hard metal church chairs. We stand.

Then, silence; the hands to the skies and house-on-fire demonstrations halt. People see us getting ready to bolt. And the sale's not closed.

Church of the Almighty Meal: "Hold on, hold on, brother and sister! You've nourished your body, and now it's time to nourish your soul! Come join us in spirit and hear what your starving soul led you here today to hear. Let us feed you in a way that you have not been fed before!"

Me: ::hissing at my brother:: I knew it. What did I tell you? Now what!?

Brother: ::hissing harder back at me:: I don't know. Let's just level with them. Tell them we're Catholic and don't move when we pray.

Brother: "All right, then, friends. Fair is fair. We're all ears."

Church: "Listen to the spirit inside speak. Let us know you've heard our message today!"

Brother: ::hand to heart my brother said this:: "You guys just want to see if we've heard your message tonight, is that it?"

Church: "Yes, brother, show us you have been fed in all the ways you need to be fed."

And then I watch. Horrified. My brother bends his knees and then chest first, drops to the ground. He rolls around as if Texas Red Fire Ants are on him. He goes rigid and starts clicking the roof of his mouth while staring blindly into space.

I stay standing, not knowing what is going to happen next, and then, my brother has the nerve, mid-roll, to lock eyes on me. He whispers, "You. Now. On the ground. And don't be a lady about it."

I am scared and desperate and guilty enough. He's right, I owe them this. I put my purse down. Then I do it. And based on my brother's reaction, pathetically.

"Eyes to the back of the head! More moaning, let it come from your throat!," my brother roars while he turns himself into a human rolling pin.

I give it all I've got, I mean, as much as I can with one hand holding my dress down, and the other one reaching for the heavens.

We must've earned our noodles because suddenly hands are helping us up and patting us on the back. The soul rockers seem satisfied that they have rocked our souls. We stand up, bewildered. I brush the carpet lint off my clothes, smooth my hair down. Everyone files out of the church as if nothing has happened.

They invite us back next week Wednesday. Italian night!, they tell us. Because evidently a carbo load is what's needed when you've worked your soul into a frenzy.

 

* * *

 

The list here includes some of the funniest women I have ever read. Don't miss out on these awesome storytellers. (And tell me of your Valentine's Day plans, my plans this year include ordering myself up one of those love poems that you usually request for someone else. I'm having them call me.) 

Hop on over to these sites for Dating Woes you can't help but love:

Smacksy

Earth Mother just means I’m dusty

The Mama Bird Diaries

Midlife Mixtape

Ann’s Rants

Wendi Aarons

Mayhem in Six Minutes, or Before You Pick Up That Glow Stick

We were driving home from my youngest's soccer game on Sunday, when NPR's This American Life had us all shushing each other to catch the story that Ira Glass introduced with, "... when things go wrong. Really wrong. When you leave the normal realm of human error, fumble, mishap, and mistake and enter the territory of really huge breakdowns. Fiascos. Things go so awry that normal social order collapses. This week's show is a philosophical inquiry in the nature of fiascos —  when something simple and small turns horribly large."

Hooked, line and sinker, into the stories, we didn't go straight home but instead drove around so that we could hear the things we knew we would relate to so well. The fiasco, when in the snap of a finger, things go out of control and all moments become ones of no sense.

Halfway through the 60-minute show, I turned the radio volume down and shaking my head, I asked, "Do you all remember our fiasco??"

Today's theme: Fiasco.

It had been a quiet evening home, not a sound in the house, I was on the computer and my oldest, Alec, was on the sofa reading. The youngest, Auggie, was upstairs with the middle boy, Xavier; I assumed playing video games.

In the middle of this peace, I hear a shriek, then guttural cries, then screaming of OH MY GOD! Tripping over my chair, visual images flashed before my eyes of broken glass, even though I didn't hear anything shatter. Glass glass glass is all I can imagine -- one of my boys falling through the glass shower door. What else could it be? My oldest was pushing me out of the way to get ahead of me, shouting as he hurled over the steps, "We had a paramedic come in once last year in junior year! I know what to do!" Meant to make me feel better, I'm sure. But the scene we had here was our legs moving as slow as molasses while we heard two boys primally shrieking in the bathroom that had lots of glass shower doors all the way around. And the back of the second floor never seemed so far away.

With both of us pushing the bathroom door open so hard it hit the shower door, my oldest and I see the littlest on the floor, curled up while crying out insanely, covering both his eyes like he's just gotten his hands on a 1959 Home Science Kit where things had gone horribly wrong with sodium sulfate. The middle boy is shouting and hopping like the floor is on fire, his wild eyes tell me he's detaching from reality. I'm shouting above the din, "What the hell happened! Someone tell me what the hell happened!" But no one can answer... it's all, madness.

Fits the criteria for fiasco so far.

Answering my question would have helped so much at this time, but there is only wailing and spasms and more rolling on the floor. My mind is racing as I check the horrible possibilities. Did he drink mouthwash? Did he think it would be fun to spritz my Guess perfume into his  mouth? Did my middle boy lose his temper and hurt the little one? Did they hurt each other. But there are no answers, just sounds like an injured coyote.

I grab the middlest and through gritted teeth command TELL ME WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED! He answers me with I don't knows I don't knows. I keep shaking his shoulders, he keeps giving me more I don't knows.

It's clear now, Fiasco, and we are in the thick of it.

The oldest boy's voice suddenly grows 50 octaves deeper and pierces the wails, TELL MOM YOU GUYS! and adds the first ever heard to my ears from him, swear words. He's been spending some time with the masters, that much is clear. But despite the swears, no one snaps into shape. There's just more out of body cries, screams. The level of pandemonium and freakedoutness cannot be imagined. There are bodies tripping over each other and legs sticking up in the air and so much yelling. I am starting to see dark spots before my eyes like you see right before you pass out from hyperventilating. Oh my God. FIASCO.

The only action I can think to take is threat level orange (no sense, I know) "If you don't tell me what happened I'll call 911!"

Even louder screaming erupts, but I need clarification, damnit. I demand from middlest, "Did you hit him? And why are you screaming? Did you both touch electricity with wet hands?" (don't ask, I didn't know what my brain was sending out of my mouth at this time.)

Finally, littlest screeches between slobbery gasps, "I crack-opened a glow stick! And now I'm blind! I'm blind with pain and squishing my eyes so tight from THE PAIN!"

The room starts to spin, "YOU'RE BLIND?? You mean you really can't see?? OH MY GOD!!"

I turn to middlest, "Why are you screaming? Are you blind, too? Did you both get juice on you? How many are hurt? Where did the rest of the juice go??" because the first rule of a Fiasco situation is that all victims are accounted for.

He answers, "I'm screaming because there's microscopic GLASS crystals in there and he's blind! That's how they work, right? The crystals are glass and they glow and OH MY GOD it EXPLODED in his eyes!"

What? Glass? What? Did they say glass? SHIT. I knew it, Glass, I saw it in my visions! Then, more frightening shrieks from littlest, "Is it going to seep behind my eyes -- the glass liquid juice -- will the glass cut my brain?? Noooooooooooooo!"

Full on and out of control twilight zone fiasco. Screaming, fear of blindness, claims of impending death due to pain F.I.A.S.C.O. Along with hints of glass shards. GLASS.

Reality of what's happening starts to unfold in my mind, I need to get busy. I push youngest into the shower over everyone's body parts and I corral him under the water, shouting "Keep your eyes wide open and stare into that shower head and rinse it all out. RINSE ALL THE GLOW STUFF OUT! Just like in Clockwork Orange!"

"Like what, mom?"

"Never mind. Shit. Alec, you stay with him, Xavier, you tell me what happened! Auggie, stay in that shower!"

Xavier stammers out, "We were in here where it's dark so we could see the glow necklace and h-h-h-h-he snapped it like you're supposed to to activate it but it opened and..."

"And the glop shot straight to my EYES!" I hear littlest from inside the decontamination unit. "Like it was AIMING for my eyes -- AIMING! *gurglegurgle* and I didn't even have my hands near my face to shield my eyes and the juice shot straight to my EYES! Am I going to be blind? I don't want to be blind! I don't want to be blind, mama!,'' his little boy water filled cries echo in the stall and break my heart.

I fly down the stairs and start banging at the computer. I don't know what to google first.

• "Death by glow juice."
• "Blindness by glow juice."
• "Is glow juice dangerous."
• "What to do with glow juice explosion."

I frantically settle on the ugliest: "Will my baby be blind."

My fingers are tripping over each other on the keyboard. Yahoo! has an entire page of "Help! Glow Juice in eyes!" As I start skimming through the entries, I slowly start breathing again. They all gloriously say the same thing: "Hurts like a mofo, stings, but no death." "Happened to me at a Rave. No blindness, dood." "You'll be all right. Just sucks, especially if you're high."

I head back upstairs with the good news, still wobbly legged, but able to breathe, finally. "He's okay!," I manage to eke out. "You're okay, honey!"

Only then do I begin to hear my oldest son's voice booming above the pounding of the shower water, "MOM! I said, STOP. GOOGLING. I know so many kids that have gotten glow juice in their eyes at parties and dances. It's safe. He won't be blind. MOM!"

"What? Why didn't you tell me?" I'm in the bathroom now and begin yelling again.

"Secrets. And anyway I was shouting but you wouldn't listen! I said OMG STOP GOOGLING MOM. I told you I know someone, kids at dances. Even hand sanitizer in their eyes. He'll be okay."

"Hand sanitizer?"

"Yeah, just throwing that out there."

Fiasco confirmed.

Letting out a relieved sigh, I turn to the middlest, who was screaming louder than the littlest during the peak of the mayhem. "What were you so crazy about?"

He gasps a deep breath as if he's just broken through the surface of the Pacific Ocean, "Auggie was cracking a glow stick to get it to work and I was sitting by him and then he started screaming so I looked and he was covering his eyes and there was glow juice all over the floor and he was crumpled on the floor covering his eyes and then I started screaming too because it's Made in China and he was covering his eyes and who knows if glow juice is like those dog tag necklaces you never let us wear because they're Made in China and have lead in them and I thought he had sizzled out his eyes 'cause he was covering them and obviously in my panic, not realizing no one, not even China, would put things on the market that cause blindness as a child's toy. But you said, Mom, you said cheap products from party store catalogs like those petrolatum filled orbs, though they are cool and a fun time, are dangerous and carcinogenic. So, yeah, I started screaming and running around and I was worried Auggie's eyes were in dangerrrrrrrrr."

Oh, yes, Fiasco. With a capital effin' F.

From start to finish, the Glow Stick Fiasco probably only took six minutes, but enough time for lessons to be learned. Open the glow stick behind one's back from now on. My son has become the finger wagging community educator on Glow Stick Cracking. Yes, my fourth grade friends, this could happen to you.

Surviving a fiasco: unified by the sense of relief, that though things got crazy, we're all thankfully okay. A true fiasco, where all social structure and reason for resultant actions breaks down and the moments within, make no sense. Running around like chickens with our heads cut off, or at least our retinas day-glowed.

Ira? Pick up the phone, I've got a good one for you.

* * *

The Glory of a Picture

The unspoken power of a photo, the beauty of an image, the emotion of the visual. Why are we drawn to photos? What happens to us that when we see a picture, we want more than just a glimpse of a few seconds in the life of another, but also yearn to imagine all that is frozen in that capture of time.

My fingers trace around my mother's beautiful face, I see her cheekbones, her slim shoulders, I look at her. So young and at that moment, was her life happy? My sister rests in her arms, leaning in, effortless in her trust of my mother's presence. Were the days for my mother and her small family then, tranquil, full of Sundays spent drifting away hours in the river?

When she rode her father's horses, along with her sister and her brother, could she have imagined he'd be gone before reaching adulthood? Would she have stayed in these mountains forever without the bother of time? And how did I know without even looking closely at this photo that my mother was a woman who would not be riding side-saddle.

What dreams and wishes did my mother and father secretly hold behind their gaze here, as they smiled for someone with a camera? Did she hold a secret of a new life within her? Had she already whispered this to my father? Or was it all just this, the moment. The bliss of a sultry breeze that makes the promise of being young, eternal.

The glistening threads in our lives, did my mother here know it? That look she gives my sisters, right then and there, did she feel herself wrapped in the strands of spun gold that would make up her tapestry? It's the pull I feel, of what I see in her face, questions asked more than answered.

I tell myself, that this, all of this here, is what brought a silent smile to my mother's lips as the wind blew her hair that afternoon we spent on the lake's bluff. This photo making eternal the last time I'd be able to take her to feel the sun and return her if only for an hour, back to the mountains of Colombia.

The stand-still breathlessness that a photo gives us, more than what we see with our eyes, sweeping us away with an image that frees hopes and opens hearts to see all that isn't there -- the never ending story; one that makes it possible for us to see the before, the after, the during. The moment.

Life is an exquisite work in progress, burning with an intensity through our minutes and hours with a perfect whitehot fire that leave words failing, and unable to capture. So we try and hold it instead -- like a butterfly fluttering against our cupped hands.

With a fragile, foolish hope of keeping her here forever, I look at my mother, and take a picture.

* * *

**As many of you know, my mother passed away August 5. I want to thank you, for holding me up, in this loss, that words cannot explain. Thank you.

Familiar in the Unfamiliar

Many of you know that my mother has been in hospice, where I see her daily. I pick her up, take her for ice cream, then we drive to the lake where we sit quietly looking over the water and I watch the wind softly tousle her silver hair.

When my husband heard I was taking my mother out by myself, he was astounded. "You? Alone? With her wheelchair?," he asked in front of our children, "How do you do that?"

I opened my mouth to explain but our youngest returned rapid fire, "Mom's Colombian. She's immortal."

That's how my son sees me, immortal. That's how we all see our parents, as immortal.

And when the time comes for their days on this earth to end, little is more shocking.

I know that the physicians and hospice nurses involved in my mother's care must use four or five exclamation marks in a row when they document their meetings with me. "Daughter in denial!" "Daughter feels mother getting better!" "Explained to daughter her mother is in hospice!"

When I went to my mother's last Doctor appointment just a few weeks ago on July 5, I asked him why she was so quickly falling apart. He took in my question, and graciously chose his words. Slowly, he answered, "She's not. She's 88 and a half years old and in end stage renal failure."

I still didn't get it.

Last week, before leaving for a social media conference and with much left to do, I stopped in to see her. I walked into her room and I could see in her reddened eyes that she had been crying. My mother has been independent her entire life, and now being in a wheelchair and in hospice --  just imagining the weight of her thoughts crushed me. She counted on the daily rides outside with me in this summer, and I only had enough time built in my day to take her for ice cream, but I couldn't ignore the loud nudging in my mind. We went to dinner.

And of all the whisperings and life decisions I have ever made, this one, will always be one of the most important.

On that afternoon, my mother and I eat like queens and we sit at our table for over two and a half hours. We order anything we want a la carte from the menu. She savors her bean soup, declaring it, "Delicious!" She eats every spoonful as if it were lobster bisque. We share bites of the cut-up hot dog on her plate and it might as well have been filet mignon. The chocolate milk we have is the way she likes it -- made from white milk with chocolate syrup stirred in. We have lime Jello, then order mint chocolate chip ice cream, and she eats it all.

We laugh, and she smiles, and I see her looking at me like she's seeing me for the first time. Her eyes linger on my face. I glance over at the clock on the wall facing only me; I note the time, and decide to ignore it. I promise her that in five days, after Chicago, we'll have dinner here again. Her mouth breaks open, wide and excited. She almost claps.

When I come back from Chicago on Sunday, I see her and she sits on her bed while I tell her all she wants to know about my trip; I clean up her room and put away the laundry I've done, and she listens. We go outside into the warm July night and we sit by the fountain outside of her hospice center. I hand her pennies and dimes to toss into the water. She asks for quarters for the big wishes, and we both fling them in, shouting, "Hawaii!' at the same time. I remind her we'd go out to dinner again on Friday. She can't wait.

On Tuesday, we go to the aviary. There is an orange feathered bird that is a bully to two little grey birds that just want to be alone together. We keep up with the daily feathered drama and she asks me where she can write a report to let the powers that be know of the mean orange bird. After she chastises the bully bird that she has named "King," I take her back to her room. I give her my word that I'll be back Wednesday, and she doesn't seem to want to say good-bye. She asks me over and over, if I really will be back in the morning. I assure her that I will, and remind her that it's going to be a big day, because I plan on bringing her along for back to school shopping with my youngest, because she seems strong enough. She promises me she'll go to bed early and I leave her, excited and grateful, holding my hands, thanking me for everything.

Wednesday morning, as I'm getting ready to pick her up, my phone rings. One thing I hate about caller I.D. is the gut punch of a recognized number. My stomach goes cold when I see it's her hospice center. I stare at the number on the phone and I don't want to pick up. My children hear me say that out loud, but I know I have to answer. I say hello, and the supervising nurse begins to tell me that my mother has been ill since 4 a.m. I hear my mother, so sick, in the background. I need the nurse to talk quickly, so I can hang up, and leave right then -- my heart is pounding with what I will find when I get there. 

I am a thick headed, dense as a plank, silly daughter.

My first words to her hospice nurse when I walk into my mother's room and see her ill enough to not be dressed yet though it was almost 9 a.m., are, "She can't be sick. I still have her shopping list in my pocket for today -- right here, see?" From my front jeans pocket, I pull out the folded up white sheet of paper we've written out together, just yesterday. "See, this is what she wants to buy my son for back to school. And it's sunny out, we need to go out for ice cream after. We can't miss going out for ice cream when it's nice out. I need to take her for her ice cream..."

The nurse lets me keep talking.

"Mama," I bend down and speak into my mother's soft curls splayed against her pillow. With a desperation that strangles my throat I whisper, "Remember our dinner, we have to go for our dinner."

I hear the nurse click her pen to write, and imagine the notes she'd begin to take in her chart.

"Daughter in denial..."

+ + + + + + + + + + +

My mother has been semi-conscious since Wednesday morning. Surprisingly, this time sitting by her side isn't tense or frightening, but is a time of awe -- it feels unfamiliarly familiar. So much like the times my babies were born. My mother now and then opens her eyes, sees my face, and with tremulous hands, reaches for it, holding it and making the very sound my children made when they were born -- like a baby lamb.
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