She sat at the cafe, looking out at the falling snow. The mug in her palms was warm, hot almost. She imagined seeing the steam rise in streams, obscuring her vision. She imagined the snow coming down faster than it was. She imagined sitting in the same chair, in the same room, in the same position for the rest of the day.

The scent of the coffee was bitter, the taste sharp. She drank it down as quickly as she could without scalding her lips and throat. The day would begin before she could stop it. The skies would clear, and the sun would begin to show itself in long, angular rays bouncing off the tall buildings of her small, hometown city.

If they saw her, if they knew her thoughts right at this very moment, some of her friends would warn her of a pending depressive episode. She was prone to them, it was true. But today’s slow start and overwhelming feelings of disappointment were not symptoms of depression. If anything, today she was already falling prey to self-indulgence–the “woe is me” kind that comes after an evening of comparing one’s accomplishments to those of one’s friends. Or even to strangers, all of whom so often seemed to her to be much more accomplished, successful, happy.

She wasn’t worried, as she sat in the cafe, all of the empty tables surrounding her as the morning customers ordered their coffees and scones to go. She recognized what was happening. Regret. Shame. Frustration. She would fight the shutdown today. And she would persevere. But for now, as the window before her fogged just the tiniest bit in response to the invisible stream of her coffee’s rising steam, she would indulge. Wish. Think thoughts of “what if,” “if only” and “when.”

Sarah and I were talking yesterday about how lucky we are. There are so many reasons, of course, but our conversation centered around family. Our own childhoods, with engaged, educated, interesting, fun parents who each respected their children and encouraged us all to excel, to take risks, to grow. OK, we didn’t use those words during our chat, but that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? Having good parents means so very much.

Now that we’re both in the thick of it, trying oh so hard to be good parents ourselves, we call upon our own childhood experiences more and more. We wonder how our own parents would have handled situations that we’re going through with our own kids now. We realize how very rare our own experience was——that our house was the house everyone wanted to be at. Sure our friends came by to eat the good food that dad always made sure stocked the kitchen: ice cream, chips, a dozen kinds of cereal, bagels, soda. And they came to swim in our pool or play basketball out back. But our friends also came because our parents welcomed them. And let them be who they were, just as they let us be who we were and who we were becoming.

There is so very much more to this topic. It is never ending, really, as we all try to offer our kids the best of all possible childhoods. After having another talk with Sarah about how our kids are so lucky to have their siblings and their cousins and a large extended family of love and tradition, I received a link to this video. It’s the same message in a slightly different——and slightly more sad——delivery. But there it is, loud and clear: Enjoy. Thank. Appreciate. Share. Do your best. Live together and with great appreciation for all that you have.

Today isn’t a “significant” day in the loss of our dad. It’s not his birthday or the anniversary of the day he died or Valentine’s Day——on which I always remember him and the year we sat at Pizza Hut as a family and he gave me and my siblings each a Valentine-themed pencil. But sometimes it’s the days that aren’t supposed to be significant that are most memorable.

We were lucky to share so many days together.
And we’re lucky to have so many memories to share.

But some days are still difficult.

Even as we children are lucky still, each with our own families of five now.
Even as a doting grandmother, who has so very many reasons to be proud.

Because I wrote this quickly. Because it’s Tuesday. Because I haven’t joined up in a very long time, I’m linking this post to Heather of the EO’s Just Write #19.

“You might want to say awesome.”

Words straight out of my 3-year-old’s mouth. Apparently I didn’t praise her quickly enough–in this case for getting herself dressed.

Or maybe it wasn’t the getting dressed itself, rather the choice of clothing: A fleece pullover of dinosaur print that, not so incidentally, has a matching fleece dinosaur-print hat, complete with stegasaurus-like spikes. She was getting dressed for school–an event that happens only twice per week–and I gathered that she’d been planning the ensemble for some time.

Sweetie and I have laughed about this particular sentence spoken by our spirited and strong-willed daughter, who provides us with plenty of entertainment in the way of her expressive storytelling daily. But what has resonated with me, even a week after her announcement/request, is the truth and simplicity that young children don’t hesitate to ask for what they need. Whether it’s more juice, help tying a shoe or a hug, my kids are experts at letting their needs by known.

I am not good about asking for what I need. Not good at all. And although I’ve always felt this way, as far back as I can remember, I’m quite sure that when I was a child (at least before age 5, according to my mom, the esteemed GG), I was like any other kid, demanding attention or help any number of times in a given day.

As mothers so many of us remark on the number of times we hear “Mom!” “Mama!” “Mommy!” in a given day (or hour). Depending on the number of kids in the house, these demands come at increasing frequency and increasing decibels. Most days I crave silence.

But since this sweet, innocent remark from my precocious 3-year-old––my youngest and last child: “You might want to say [the briefest of pauses] awesome,” spoken while raising her eyebrows just the slightest bit, her huge dark brown eyes full of expectation, I’ve been thinking about how it happened that I lost this trait. When is it that I not only matured enough to be a little more resourceful but also withdrew excessively so as not to feel the right to need anything at all.

I recognize that even just a few years ago I might have laughed at my daughter and gone on with my day, jotting down her cute sentence on a scrap of paper nearby, intending to transcribe it in a more important place but ultimately losing it. I recognize that I’m changing. As I come out of the babyhood of my children, I’m spending just a tiny bit more time on me. And while I still don’t shower as often as I’d like or get enough sleep or have many clothes that fit, I do have more self awareness. I do have a few minutes to really think about how I feel. And why. And to try my best to express both, to myself and to the people I love.

I’m getting better. The awareness is continuing. I know I don’t need to do everything myself. (These three kids have had everything to do with this clarity.) And that it’s OK to ask for something without worrying too much about inconveniencing someone else. And while I still could stand to speak up a little louder when I need a pat on the back, I also know that I will always have a hard time putting myself first. Fortunately for all of us I don’t foresee myself changing my firm belief that the kids should come first. And I want my children always to be able to tell me what they need, even if I can’t always be the one to give it to them right away.

As it turns out, I’m not doing so badly.

I said, “Awesome!”

I knew what I wanted. A book on my shelf with my name on its spine.

I set a goal. A weekly goal. A yearly goal. A goal related to a certain age. That age. The one that used to signify over the hill but that now might be a mark of the last years of youth. Except for a soft middle, crowed eyes, gray hair on me, this woman who is so, so tired. I don’t feel young. I feel like I am at a place where the opportunities slip away faster than they come to light. I feel as if I may be up against my last chance to move toward that spine. Those initials of mine embossed into the hardcover of a novel telling the story of characters I created.

I knew what I wanted. I know what I want. It doesn’t change. It’s been the same since long before I dared want anything more than the family I now have in riches. The family I wanted and that came my way with such little effort by me I wonder if I’m spoiled by the ease of attaining my life’s goals.

I know what I want. I know what I have. It’s the dichotomy of riches. How do I confidently move forward, celebrating and nurturing my successes in one area and pursuing with optimism the risks that are so daunting in another? Creation and creativity pulling me in such different directions.

At the beginning of a New Year again I haven’t dared write it down. The goal is the same. Reality is changing every day. There are needs to be met that aren’t my own, and they are more important—at least right now. And so I will tend to the children, to my relationship, to my family. I will not set unattainable goals. I will take each day as it comes and do the best that I can and squeeze in a few minutes for writing when I can.

With 2012 will come age 40 for me. But even if I don’t get my manuscript finished before that day eight months from now I will have lots more to show for these 365 days: So much of what I wanted when I dared to want more. Three children. A partner in it all. A home to call our own.

This post is part of today’s Write On Edge linky.

Less personal narrative.
More fictional creations.
What you just might find here
(on Jen’s writing days) in 2012.

I first published the letter below last January, at the outset of 2011. As I re-read it tonight I felt sad and empty with the realization that a few short months after I wrote those words, I lost that self for a time. I should elaborate. But what’s most important is that I’m back now. My better self found. Or I’m here again: In this place, thinking about the living that happens beyond the writing. So much has changed this past year. And yet what is important is so fully the same. The people with whom I share this life, my place in the world: My sweet love. Our remarkable children. Tonight my eyes are open wide. I’m smiling. I’m full. And in 2012 I intend to keep this focus all year long. Call it a resolution. I resolve to stay true. Grateful. For all the gifts of my days.

********

Dear Self,
I like you these days. This you that is less concerned with the things that don’t matter too much—like the state of the floor, clothes strewn, toys scattered. Or the unmade beds and unwashed children. (Are you sensing a trend, self?)
I like you. I like your kindness these days. Your more lighthearted self. There is so much that is difficult, namely finances and mothering—knowing what is right and being able to do right by your family. The other stuff—the messy house, the extra five pounds, the hair that grows increasingly longer down your back, the missed PTO meetings—they just aren’t as important.
I like you because every single day—the good days and the bad—you are appreciating the people in your household. Your four. All five of you. Yes! You are appreciating even yourself!
I like you because you aren’t being quite so hard on yourself. I like you because you are truly happy. I like you because there is a big picture that is coming back and it is allowing the closer picture to come into better focus.
Self, I like you now. This is a good place. Do your best to stay in this mindset of goodness. Don’t be afraid to venture out, but do try to come back here.
Love,
Me. (You?)

I have ideas and words swimming through my brain. Add time and quiet and I might be able to coerce them into a satisfying piece of writing.

I have a list of things to do. And a list of things to buy. And a list of things to make. And a list of when to address each list.

There is no time. There is no quiet. Not at this time of year, especially.

At the beginning of December I actively acknowledged to myself that I was not going to meet my writing goals for the year. And so? I let go of them. Completely. Knowing that New Year resolution season would rapidly follow the holidays I dropped my writing focus altogether. It’s been a relief and a challenge. Living each day without writing more than those lists has been a very different reality. I’ve tried very hard to be conscious of this reality and to measure–at least internally, emotionally–how I am changed by not having a pen in my hand, a keyboard beneath my fingertips.

I’m still making sense of it all, and I don’t expect January 1 to bring immediate answers or even comfort. But I did feel I ought to, you know, show myself here just to acknowledge that writing is still an important part of my life. And boy do I have some three-kid-relevant thoughts and stories to share. When the time and the quiet and the words collide–in a good way.

So in the meantime, I wish you all a happy holiday season. Our tree is finally up and has taken over the living room. Apparently when I saw it on the lot the size of my house grew three sizes in my mind.

Hundreds of photos to choose from
Three years of life already lived.
How do I pick and choose
The images that tell your story
When what I want the most
Is to preserve every single moment?

True: I thought of the perfect
six-word post while driving familiar roads
on the way home from school
with (only!) one child behind me
and my thoughts (almost) to myself.

Also true: I cannot recreate perfect
or even, now, something vaguely similar
to the six words that flowed
line after line in exact representation
of how I’ve been feeling today
(low, sorry for myself, weepy even).

Truest: I have so very much.

Truest of all: Perfect doesn’t exist.

(And that’s worth remembering every day.)

My heart is still swollen from a Monday night surprise that leaves me unable to write my own words. And so I share instead a few stanzas from a song that I’m listening to right now. If you recognize these words and maybe the melody plays in your mind and you find yourself thinking of strings and harmony, maybe you know what the surprise was—concert tickets tucked into an early Christmas card and landing in my hand when I got home from work. Sweetie and I don’t go out just the two of us very often. And Monday was a night to remember. Two happy people (among a few thousand more) listening to sad songs by remarkable musicians in our local theater in our not-so-sleepy downtown.

“I’m an indisguisable shade of twilight
Any second now, I’m gonna turn myself on
In the blue display of the cool cathode ray
I dream a highway back to you

What will sustain us through the winter?
Where did last year’s lessons go?
Walk me out into the rain and snow
I dream a highway back to you

Oh, I dream a highway back to you, love
A winding ribbon with a band of gold
A silver vision, come and bless my soul
I dream a highway back to you
I dream a highway back to you.”

Thank you, my love, for a sweet surprise. And for steering me along this highway. I’d be lost without you.