Swooning

Hi again!

It’s been a while. Thanksgiving sans 30 guests, the growing pandemic, family scattered across the country, long winter days…it has been tough and not much of a swoon-inspiring time. Each day in November I do a FB post about something I am thankful for…it might be my morning coffee or having healthy friends and family…nothing is too big or too small. This little exercise took up the writing slot in my brain, but now I am back…until I am not. I am beginning to learn that one has the right to feel their feels and do as they do. As they say…it is what it is.

I was recently asked to be a guest on a podcast about creativity. Pre-March Kat would have been stressed, insecure, and thinking why on earth would they want to talk to ME. Post-March Kat is like, ok um, sure, why not? We will chat, I like to chat. We will explore what creativity is, which can only be fun. I really didn’t think much about it until I was asked for a bio and headshot. Now, that is a problem. I have neither.

Who am I? Am I Pre-Pandemic Kat…who had a flourishing business; who whipped together insta dinners; who had professionally painted blue toenails and smooth brown hair? Or am I Pandemic Kat…who cooks lavish dinners and pies, and then some more pies; who produces community Covid-safe experiences and virtual holiday gatherings during her “work day”; who has experienced less hair care and pampering in the last 9 months…than her dog. If I only plan on being Pandemic Kat for another 4-6 months (one can hope) am I really her? After much thought, the truth is, I am Pandemic Kat…I am forever changed.

Swoon, on to the hard part, the headshot.

After taking more selfies than any truly self-obsessed teenage girl (sans the fish lips), I notice my newly acquired wrinkles, gray hair, and puffy eyes. So here we go again, do I use an old headshot or do I embrace the current me? I used to work for a hospital where a huge, I mean hugely huge donor insisted we use a headshot that was at least 35 years old. She was well into her ninth decade, we were living in the late 90s, and her photo was from way back when her groovy Lilly Pulitzer dress…was the height of fashion. I didn’t get it, why not use a more recent photo? Now I totally get it. We are one person in our minds, and another that the world sees. I have aged this past year, which makes sense, I have been sadder than ever before, so it only makes sense that those hardships would show. I have also been pretty impressed with the resilience our family has shown during these nutty times…and with that, I will choose to focus on the growth…wrinkles and all. I will embrace my new headshot…at least for the podcast needs.

I hope you are well. I hope you are able to find bits of goodness in this incredibly odd time…that is all we can do. If you want to experience the podcast feel free to tune in, I think it is this Sunday, not totally sure. Now that the bio and headshot is done I am back to not overthinking it…which is a nice perk of being Pandemic Kat. https://www.iamcreativephilly.net/podcast

Pandemic Kat… in all her glory.

The Election of ’74

I don’t really remember the details of my first election. I was in second grade and had the most beautiful teacher in the world. She had long brown hair which she wore in a side, super high, ponytail…draping down to her shoulders. She wore blue eyeshadow, pink glazed metallic lip gloss, and thick pink-toned foundation. Linda Ronstadt meets Barbie. I loved her. I was her helper, her pet, she understood my strengths (running a classroom while she was out of the room) and weaknesses (reading aloud and math problems involving trains with lots of passengers getting on and off). I was elected to be president of the class, because of course I was…who needs an education when you can be president?

Way back when, before parents lobbied for the “good” teachers, we received class assignments on the first day of school. Sitting in the institutional tan and green auditorium, raising and lowering our squeaking seats, we waited. Finally hearing our name called for the walk of dread or glee depending on which class you were joining up front. I am not sure if I am making this up, I only remember it happening once. Memories are odd. Anyway, third grade was going to be spectacular, I had my favorite teacher…again. The same teacher, same thick makeup covering the scars from her teenage skin issues, the same beautiful mane. Swoon.

Once again, and I have no idea how, I was nominated to run for president of my 3rd grade class. Then two days into the election period…I was told I had to drop out. My teacher explained that I had already been president last year and someone else deserved a chance. I trusted the rules, I trusted my favorite teacher, all good.

That afternoon, over a glass of milk and some Ritz crackers, mom and I discussed the day…and that was where I met a different version of my mother. She was so calm on the outside but I could feel the fury. Every word so deliberate. “Kitkat, tell me again, exactly what she said, exactly.” I repeated the rules. “Kitkat, did she tell you that today or when you were nominated?” I told her it happened that day, right before lunch. Mom had been listening so intently, and taking such large drags on her cigarette that when she finally released the smoke through her nose…it went on, and on, and on. She kissed my forehead and started dialing her co-PTA president on the rotary phone…back in those days, dialing could take a really long time and be very very loud…the way one dialed was a clear window to their current emotion. My mom was beyond upset. It seems that the PTA board had put the principal on notice for some pretty bad stuff that very morning…and having his ego bruised by a bunch of women, he told my favorite teacher, the woman I put on a pedestal…who also happened to be his niece…that I could not be president. He took out his frustrations on a little girl.

I learned some big lessons that week. People will do what they need to do to get what they want, no matter how wrong it is. Recipients of nepotism will do what they need to do to keep their jobs, no matter who they hurt. People do not care about rules, or facts, or doing the right thing, they protect themselves at all costs. Elementary school principals who park their Porsche on what could be a play area for kids probably have their priorities mixed up. Powerful men exposed by a bunch of women can get really really mean…they also can get taken out. Parents forget their kids have ears when they are in crisis mode. And most of all, my mom was a badass and would call out every single one of these people and point out how very ashamed they should be.

I did not get to be president of the class that year and that was just fine. It is dangerous to always get what you want and the truth is, it was nicer to let someone else shine. At the end of the year I was selected to perform a dance routine…on a table in front of the stage…at a special school assembly, with all the other kids in the grade on the stage behind me. My teacher knew I would learn the routine and follow the costuming instructions. We danced to The World is Black, The World Is White by Three Dog Night. I wore my black dance leotard and white short shorts, white knee-high socks and Mary Janes…with black and white yarn bows in my shoulder length pigtails. The other kids wore blue lace dresses, plaid green and black Christmas skirts, tweed gray rompers…anything but the black and white they were supposed to be wearing…they looked really pretty but were SO missing the point of the song.

My favorite teacher stole my chance at the election, she bowed down to her bully uncle, she hurt me to the core…but she apologized in her own way…giving me center stage. I accepted her apology by showing up in black and white from head to toe…leading the grade in our politically correct dance…and making her look good.

Being gracious is so underrated. Let’s all be gracious, that way everyone wins.

Swoon.

Shrinky Dinks and Jesus

Today was filled with all kinds of goodness. We took a walk, leaves beneath our feet, swish, crinkle, swish…the sound of Fall. Started off wearing a sweater knowing after a mile or so it would be wrapped around my waist. I love this season. Cutting root vegetables from the farmers market, purple, yellow, and orange carrots for a curried stew. The smells from the slow cook in grandma’s cast iron pot on the stove bring joy all day. Knowing I can chill until dinner when all I will need to do is make some ginger rice and set the table. Fall. Family, cozy and quiet, a reset from the go go go of summer. Well…usually…not this summer, but I am not looking back to the summer lost, I am embracing the Fall ahead.

The stew was stewing, fire glowing, and The Brady Bunch on as background nostalgic yet cringe-worthy goodness, I scrolled and participated in one of those “let’s all remember the past and bond over our similarities” posts. Not about music, or movies, or what naughty things we did as teens…about crafts and games. My kind of questionnaire.

What crafts did I do? What games did I play… my head exploded. Fall days growing up were all about crafts and games, non stop! My answers…papier-mâché, homemade Play-doh, batiking, beeswax candle making, baking, painting shells, Shrinky Dinks, decoupage with wrapping paper and comics, coil pots, loom kits, newspaper weaving, cootie catchers, Barbie clothes making, fairy houses, water painting, broken pottery mosaics, creating our own newspapers and comics, hand-coloring bw photos. What joy…sitting at the kitchen table or on the living room floor, mom in the kitchen cooking, dad in the living room cursing at or quietly enjoying the Giants game…swoon. Other people’s answers reminded me of things I have not thought of in ages, literally ages…chewing gum wrapper and daisy chains, transferring the Sunday comics onto Silly Putty, the Creepy Crawler Bug Maker set. Oh my gosh, the burns we used to get from that bug maker. Spectacular. Life, Monopoly, Spit, Payday, Clue, Careers, The Guinness Book of World Records game… so much fun, so great to reminisce. What a gift.

After a day of swoon worthy memories I went to my studio to work a bit. Working on Sundays almost always assures a pleasant Monday. I walked in to find some CDs that Greg found in the basement…the basement from hell, an episode of hoarders…the basement of anything you might need, if you can find it. The basement that had my original Broadway cast recording of Godspell… the scream that opens the show, the centerfold with Jesus…Jesus who used to buy lunch at my parents’ health food restaurant on 42nd and 6th Avenue (a delightful and juicy story that must wait), my Godspell, my childhood.

Poor Greg just made the mistake of saying “Oh, I didn’t know you had this soundtrack”. Um…seriously. That comment lead to me performing my 45 year-old choreography for the opening number…I am a bit rusty to say the least. He was a gentleman and just smiled while secretly hoping I would not end up in the hospital from my twists and turns. He really is a good man.

When I was nine I danced. I danced every day after school, tap, jazz, ballet, acrobatics… my parents were very generous. I would do homework, eat dinner, then dance some more. Our living room had floor to ceiling paned windows and once it became dark, those windows magically became mirrors…I die just thinking about this. Not registering that they were not actually mirrors I danced for the neighborhood nightly. Routines to HAIR, Godspell, Jesus Christ Superstar, Pippin…in my black baggy leotard with my white panties sticking out the sides. I thought I was amazing…looking exactly like one of Jerome Robbins’ ladies. Confidence is wasted on the young.

After such a pleasant day of reminiscing, I write to wish you all peeks into your past, the joy of innocent hobbies, back to the days when we could dance for hours pain free…speaking of which…my hip currently is out of wack from my performance 10 minutes ago. It was worth it… swoon.

October

Swoon. My FaceBook memories are exploding with sheer goodness. Annual college girls weekends at Fire Island; Halloween costumes, parades and parties; a road trip across the country; a celebration of life backyard soiree for our 50th birthdays and 25th wedding anniversary. So. Much. Joy. I lay in bed every morning reliving the feeling of so much good, savoring it, getting energized from the past.

Today… boom. The jacket showed up. Such emotion, such feels. October is breast cancer awareness month.

One of my college besties is a survivor. She made a promise to herself to do the Avon Breast Cancer Walk in NY once she was back to herself. We made a plan, hotel room (I do not camp after walking a ridiculous amount of milage), dinner plans with additional college buddies (I happily drink fancy cocktails at any time), training (important when walking 39 miles in two days).

Two pairs of good walking sneakers, fanny pack, bandages, blister cream, pink lipstick… check. Walking and weaving, back and forth…getting in 15-18 mile training walks. Now I just needed pink clothing. Nope. Not going to happen. I wear black…with some cute accents…in black. So I ordered a black jacket and decided I would paint the names of survivors and those lost on it in pink puff paint. Pink puff paint should check off the “join the party” and “be a girly girl” boxes just fine.

I had my personal list of survivors and people lost to cancer but the more I thought about it, the more I also wanted to also represent the many wonderful people who gave towards my entrance “donation”. Generous people who funded my walk within just one day of asking. I put out an ask and almost immediately I had an inbox of responses, names, stories, tributes. Swoon.

I was honored to walk for the lost loved ones of my friends, after hearing the stories of their lives, they mattered to me too. I was humbled to walk for those who survived. That jacket represented so many good souls.

Cancer man, it sucks. It changes so many lives. We walk for cancer. We eat healthy, we exercise, we stop smoking, we don’t pesticide our yards…because of cancer. We have a respect and fear of the disease…we know can take so much away from us…randomly, any time it wants.

Why did I get so emotional this am? Because for the life of me I can not understand why so many do not have the same respect and fear of Covid-19.

I looked up how many people will die of all cancers in 2020…it is approximately 606,000 deaths…about 43,000 from breast cancer alone. We are experiencing a pandemic where 215,000 people have died in the last 8 months.

Question… if wearing a mask, avoiding inside social situations, and standing 6 feet from people at all times meant your chance of getting cancer would go WAY down, maybe even go away, don’t you think everyone would follow those guidelines?

I do not personally know anyone who has died of cancer this year (knock on wood), yet I know it is real. This pandemic is real. Respect it.

It is a privilege to be alive.

Front and back…more names were added to the sleeves last minute.

Planning

I love a good plan. I have always known this but it has become really clear during the pandemic. Besides toilet paper and food deliveries, there has not been enough to plan for. When you are deprived of something that brings you joy, your whole being changes. You don’t really notice it, it is a slow drain, bits of your being just go away.

My girlfriend from college called, her kids needed something to look forward to, she needed something to look forward to… we all needed something to look forward to. Anything. Since both families are very strict about masks and social distancing we decided on a gathering. Two sets of everything, seating areas, 10 feet apart, outside. Safe.

Planning.

We will have chili, cornbreads, pies, and s’mores. We can build a fire pit, and make sure to have enough wool blankets…because cozy is good. We can pull out games just in case we don’t have enough to talk about…ha..that is funny.

Preparing.

“My” chili recipe is beyond, it came from a friend of a friend and while I make it I curse whoever this Martha (not Stewart) person is. A ridiculous amount of steps, full of specifics and absolutes. It is really bossy. Notes like, put in one QUALITY milk chocolate bar, not Hersheys, well… ok then. Chopping huge mixing bowls full of onions (three varieties) and peppers (three colors) while marinating the cubed steak in freshly squeezed lime juice and garlic (chopped, you use the minced later), insert eye roll. Cute dishes and tablecloths, check. 90s music blasting while we do, check.

Do you know how contagious walking into a room twirling and singing and dancing a la Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club is to your family… very contagious. Smiles, dance partners, barking dogs. Joy.

The joy just continued and compounded. We all needed each other. Laughter, food, and funny stories galore. A chilly gray afternoon, an even chillier evening…all made warm and delightful by good company.

Planning.

Two years ago today my Jacob and I started our drive across the country to his new life. He was down in the dumps because it seems two years of experience was a prerequisite for any job he was applying for in NY. He had a job offer and a delightfully brilliant girlfriend in Los Angeles…time to go, no brainer. We would take a mother son adventure we lovingly called “our belated, never before had, maternity leave”. I was in organizational list-making bliss. What clothing, computer equipment, games, musical instruments, life items could we fit in a little Prius? What is one willing to leave behind as they start a new chapter in their lives? What music should we download? What snacks should we start out with? How long would we drive each day and where would we sleep each night? Planning.

Our first day we drove with butterflies in our bellies…was this really a good idea, this was not camp, or college…this was a trip to drop him off at a new life, across the country. Sigh. Taking turns being the DJ we discovered new music and relived theater experiences singing along to soundtracks. We recreated the “Moving Right Along” video…California here we come and we embraced having no idea what lay ahead for the next six days. Bits of goodness…like realizing New Jersey rest stops should be more appreciated, scoping out groovy drive-ins for milkshakes and burgers, learning that in Ohio you are offered ketchup or ranch with your fries…we talked, and we were silent. Exhausting, exhilarating…joy.

For the next few days, I will receive FB memory reminders…posts, pictures, videos, the whole shebang. A priceless gift I have because of a life-changing request from my Olivia…as her big brother took off for his new life, so far away, she said…Mom, just post every day, I want to read all about it. What a treasure that request was.

Somehow between planning a very casual gathering and seeing day one of our cross country adventure pop up on FB this morning…I am rejuvenated, even if just for a bit.

I am still here. I am grateful.

It is amazing how much you can fit in a Prius…and even more amazing how full his childhood room still is.

They Were Five…

so little, just starting Kindergarten…their teensy-tiny siblings in preschool together. The summer had just wrapped up with last trips to the community pool. An illustrator, a designer, a nurse, and a firefighter…guess who was married to who. We were young families who connected.

We woke up to the most beautiful day. Oh my gosh the color of the sky, the blue, that blue, that haunting blue. Just a tad of red it in to make it sing, that blue. Dropping my Jacob off at elementary school was new, looking back to me a few times, those big brown eyes needing a bit of strength, some reassurance…before entering that big brick building alone. Then dropping of my Olivia at nursery school, she was all in, huge smile and sparkling eyes…not once did she ever look back. Walking down to my office, stopping for coffee and a chat with the ladies holding court at their tables, moving on to accomplish what needed to get done before putting the mom hat on again.

A phone call from a client in the city. “It is burning.”

TV on. This can not be happening. Call Greg who watches TV “with me” while I am at the office blocks away. Call Andrea, she will need to get to the hospital. Charlie will be down there fighting the fire for sure, I can pick up her kids if she wants. That’s how suburbia works, when we say “our kids” we mean every kid in the community. She says, I think I am ok, the hospital said to wait until we are called in. She was good, she was going to wait and see what was going on with Charlie.

She never heard from Charlie.

We banded together as a community. People helped as they could, but no matter what we did it was not like having a dad around. Losing a parent is difficult. Losing a really funny, snarky, and incredibly intelligent hands-on parent…well, there are no words.

Andrea is the strongest woman I know, well, besides RBG who is one step above human. Andrea never hated, ever, and she never stopped giving to others. She creates, she mothers, she educates, she is positive and kind. She is as we should be.

This is a Swoon of random thoughts.

Today is a day I am more quiet than usual. More as I should be. Today is a day I think back to memorial service planning “plan for 300-500 or so”…to all of the pranks and jokes Charlie pulled on me… to our little little kids playing in the backyard together, innocent from the permanence of what just happened…to that blue sky.

Today I try to be better. I try to follow the example of the fun and free spirited Charlie, studying to be a captain, studying for his families future…and to the steadfast, strong, creative, and giving Andrea, who would give you the shirt off her back if she thought it might help.

I try.

Donuts and Pretzels

September 4th. It’s my dad’s birthday. Maybe it means breakfast for dinner, maybe a black and white cookie, or an Entenmann’s cake, or donuts. Maybe I will eat pretzels and watch a Cyd Charisse movie, or Bridge on the River Kwai. I will kiss my mom and text my siblings. We will all think about him, sigh, as we do. I believe in celebrating those who have passed…in keeping them alive through story, rituals, and memories…I believe they feel our love. It is a comforting way to deal with death.

My nephew Lionel never got to meet my dad in person, but somehow I find the connection between Lionel and the grandpa he never met beyond strong. There is a part of my dad in him. Born a bit over a year after my dad passed, Lionel looks exactly like him…those full crooked lips, those gorgeous blue eyes. This resemblance had me in tears the first time I met him. I walked in the hospital room, looked at his little face, and ran out crying…a happy cry. My poor sister-in-law. She saw it too, nursing a baby who looks exactly like your father-in-law is not easy, but she powered through. As he grows up we see that Lionel doesn’t just look like my dad, he has the same off the charts smarts, spirit, twinkle in his eyes…and he is a most genuine and kind human. Swoon.

My dad was an imp. When I play the movie version of the stories I know of his youth, I picture the scrappy kids from The Little Rascals, running around the streets getting into mischief. Saturdays meant some stickball then the picture show…for 10 cents he could watched the serials, then a double feature…with a bag of penny candy as his food for the day. When we would buy penny candy as kids…Tootsie Rolls, taffy, Dots… literally for a penny each, he would tell us of getting a BAG of candy for a penny, those were the days.

So much to write, but this is not an obit, it is a Swoon, a Swoon during a time when it is so hard to swoon. There will be no Fire Island this Labor Day weekend, no celebrating my dad in the house he loved so so very much, no chat with him while at the ocean, or creating a huge family dinner of eggs over easy and home fries…none of that. All that set aside for this year, but there was no way I was also missing out on the Entenmann’s, so I braved the grocery store. We will celebrate with sugar, preservatives, and fat. Donuts will be delivered to Jacob in Los Angeles…because remembering is important. I am sure my siblings will celebrate with their own dad junk food selections…there were so very many to choose from. Remembering brings smiles.

“Our memories, they have to be passed down by those who knew us in life—in the stories they tell about us.” — from the movie Coco

Happy Birthday Dad. So many more people got know you a bit today. Swoon.

“The Talk”

The Talk…sex, breakups, marriage, divorce, Santa, sickness, jobs…so many variations. Butterflies in the belly, whether you are the giver or receiver. When someone says, hey, we need to talk…it usually falls under a wonderful, terrible, or oh my god this is so embarrassing column.

My Childhood Sex Talk Part One…I was about 11, sitting on my parent’s bed, my reflection in the huge Zenith TV. Mom had called me in, come sit, as she patted the bed. What had I done, I was in trouble for sure. Nope, it was…The Talk…so much worse than anything I could be in trouble for. My sister was 16 and since she had a boyfriend my mother assumed I too needed The Talk. I assured her I knew everything, and to my surprise she said ok, let me know if you ever have any questions. Awesome, bullet dodged.

My Childhood Sex Talk Part Two…I was 13. My binder had exploded on the bus ride home. The most delicious boy helped me collect my papers. He was one year older and completely dreamy…in a totally out of my league kind of way. Handing me a test with a 96 on it, he said, Nice, too bad it isn’t a 69 (insert a confusing wink wink nudge nudge laugh here). I knew enough to know I was not understanding the context. Soooooo I marched right home and told my mom the story. WHO SAID THAT? Naturally, I threw him under the mom bus…and without any words she drew me an understated line drawing. Two stick figures, heads in genitals, perfection. I barfed in my mouth a bit and as I turned to walk away she said… Kit Kat, tell him that you asked me what a 69 was…and tell him that I told you. Brilliant mothering on so many levels.

My Childhood Sex Talk Part Three…I was 17. Sitting with mom at the breakfast room table eating grilled cheese sandwiches while Family Feud played in the background. “Kit Kat, you know, you never…I mean never…never ever ever forget the first person you have sex with. Make sure the person is someone you want to remember…for the rest of your life.” MICROPHONE DROP…best sex talk ever. My innocent summer fling of the moment did not have a chance.

Sex Talks Part Four and Five…As a mom it is a right of passage. I knew my husband would want to speak with our son, he loves these moments. He did a brilliant job. Jacob might have been a bit young, he was disgusted by the whole description. He asked if there was ANY other way to have a baby. When in vitro was described he asked how he was created. Grossed out and disappointed at the answer he moved on to other difficult questions, like how do you get a phone in college (days of landlines), and how does the credit card company know where to send a bill. I guess he figured since he knew about sex he might as well just get ALL adulting questions over at once. Somehow my husband also gave the sex talk to our Olivia. Not understanding that it might be a moment that a woman would cherish having with their daughter…he just spilled the beans when the subject came up. Maybe the universe thought my sex talk number three was so brilliant they wanted that to be the last, who knows.

Other Talks…the Santa talk, Mom, do you believe in Santa? Response, yes, I love believing in Santa…aced it. The wedding proposal, ours was atypical for sure, nothing fancy, no great story…just us…which in the end is all that matters. The how much more time will my dad live talk…the worst. Getting no answers from my dad’s physicians, we asked a doctor friend who responded with “I would get his papers in order in the next few months”. He was spot on, that talk allowed me to plan, say goodbye, and live with no regrets.

I am one of those people who start planning Thanksgiving in late August. Haters gonna hate…I get sh*t done. We have between 17-30 people in our little home and I will say straight out, it is spectacular. It is not fancy, it is family, and everyone leaves feeling good…even if I have to kill myself to make it happen. I love it. Christmas is more about immediate family, siblings. Christmas crackers, formal dinners, themed pjs and a long day of presents, games, and cozy. Swoon.

The 2020 Holiday Talk…I have been avoiding it. If we do not speak about it maybe we can ignore the inevitable, maybe the virus will disappear, maybe drinking bleach will suddenly work (please do not consider this), maybe spiking numbers will suddenly go down, maybe science will be respected and people will listen.

No.

I just had The Holiday Talk with our son who lives in California. The Talk consisted of half sentences, going kind of like this…
HIM: About Thanksgiving and Christmas, I want to…
ME: Maybe flying first class would…
HIM: I just don’t think…
ME: Two weeks quarantine once you arrive, maybe you could live…
HIM: I could not live knowing I…
ME: I love you to pieces, this sucks but it is the right thing.
HIM: I love you too.

He does not want to risk losing his life. He does not want to risk killing one of his loved ones. He is a responsible person. He cares about more than himself.

So it is over, we had The Talk and we have decided. We will do the selfless thing, the thing that follows science and fact, the thing that is uncomfortable. The exceptionally hard decision that completely hurts my soul. I hate it. I especially hate this when so many are just doing whatever they want because “they are done with the pandemic”. I am not sure what that statement even means. I will cry at random times. I will wake up in the middle of the night hoping this is only a dream. I will plan and arrange and create the greatest long distance holiday situation ever…I don’t know much, but that is one thing I know for sure.

Sending love and strength and swoons to all who are hurting right now.

Part of the 2019 Thanksgiving table… swoon.

Mom…Bringing Love

When I was little and my mom reached the breaking point she would scream, “GLADYS, call me Gladys, I do not want to hear the word Mom one more time, I will help you, but do not say Mom.” We found this hysterical and would call her Gladys repeatedly, hoping to drive her right over that edge of motherhood.

When my kids were little there were more than a few times that I flashed back to the Gladys moments. Mommm, did you? Mommm, where is? Mommm, are we? Mommm, can you fix this? No matter how tired I was, I would find, do, and fix…because that is what we do.

My “kids” do not mom me to death anymore…but I feel like I am at that same breaking point…life is challenging, the pandemic tedious, politics past the point of ridiculous. Hurricanes, unemployment, killer hornets, sharks, falling trees. We need a break. I want my friends parents to be alive and well, drinking their own egg creams instead of their kids drinking egg creams in honor of them. I want to be alone with my husband, my toes in the ocean, my hand in his. I just want peace. Peace for me, peace for those I love. Peace for you.

Can we please just hand this mess over to women? There is no doubt in my mind that they can clean up this situation. The women I know fix…they fix everything.

Thanks to a recommendation from a lovely Swooning fan, I signed up for Anne Lamott’s webinar on writing. Three hours on a Saturday in August, I will be at Fire Island, take a break from the beach and have some quiet time at the house. I’m in. Little did I know we would be in the beginning stages (yes, you read that right, beginning stages) of a world wide pandemic. I am not where I thought I would be, but I am where I am.

I am alone. I am listening to an amazing woman teach me how to write, how to read, how to be whole…how to live. It is lovely. “Waste paper and time, stare off into the vast, write down anything you want to remember, keep lists, write every day, edit what you love out…and save it, paste it onto a ‘save this’ file”…brilliance. It is healing, she is fixing.

When I was pregnant, a friend sent me Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott. It was mind-blowing, about being a parent, a loving parent…with flaws. She became a mom in front of our eyes. Now I listen to her teach me how to write. I sit in my brother’s house because a major storm knocked out our power and internet. It is quiet, there are no interruptions. I sit under the most beautiful art, alone for the first time in five months…as a woman across the country helps bring peace to my soul.

Women, moms, doers, healers, teachers…we can fix this mess. When will the powers that be realize that if you want something done, go to a mom, go to a woman…a busy woman who just needs to get it done…so she can move on and fix everything else.

Goals

Every Christmas our family has gifts that end up in the “pile of disappointment”. One year it was a family wok, pitched as a fun way to cook veggies together…it was met with looks of confusion…a who are you and what have you done with my mother moment. The wok sat waiting while other gifts found their forever homes, it was then moved to the “basement of neglect”, then left us for good, to the “nearly new room” at the rummage sale. It was 100% new…no nearly about it.

This past Christmas I had the brilliant idea that we would each be gifted a goal setting planner…you know a therapist in a book, fix your life in 3 months. We could work on our goals together! Supporting each other while fighting our personal demons. This brilliant idea was met with disdain, some tears, and silence. After a lengthy recovery we decided to give it a shot. We wrote out goals, listed plans of action, and were ready to start our new lives…one never started, two lasted about a week, and one might have made it to a month. If every unused planner on the earth was stacked, would it reach the moon? My guess is yes.

My husband is pretty chill. He shows up for holidays at the same time the guests are arriving. Billing and taxes, happen when they happen. Vacations, he packs 5 minutes before we leave. But certain goals…if he wants it…he will reach it. No. Matter. What. When Greg was little he was one of those kids who loved to learn, and at a very early age he figured out that if he wanted to go to college, he was paying for it. So instead of spending his paper route money on treats, movies, or video games…he saved. With a very tasty scholarship, some student loans, and his paper route money (!), my husband paid for his own college education, including housing and food. Goals.

FaceBook memories are an oversharer’s reward. Swoon.

We have recently been enjoying posts about Greg and his two brothers participating in RAGBRAI…the Des Moines Register’s Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa. Started in 1973 by two Register columnists who were sick of friends saying Iowa is flat (it isn’t), they invited some friends to bike across the state…and a tradition was born. Greg grew up reading The Register every morning with a tall sun tea and a few bowls of Rice Chex, he followed many a RAGBRAI. The time was finally right…he liked to bike, his kids were grown, his brothers were game, he could take the week off, he could see his family, a perfect 50th birthday present to himself…score. Decision made, now he just needed train in order to be able to ride an average of 60 miles a day…for 6 days in a row…in Iowa…in July. Goals.

While he did his daily training, 10-50 miles a pop…I figured out packing and purchases. How to fit 3,562 items into a backpack…challenge on. Teeny tiny first aide kits, a system to dry wet stinky clothes each night, pants with baboon tushie padding, shirts with mysterious pockets and pouches (side note, bicycle clothing is just plain ugly), a sleeping bag that fit into a coin purse, and a postage stamp size towel that could absorb a lake. We were both doing what we do best…him exercising, me shopping.

Waking before the crack of dawn to ride over the Iowan hills as the sun rose, finishing early to recover with homemade pie, fresh Amish ice cream, and a lot of pork products. Traveling through tiny towns, people cheering them on and profiting from the 10,000 people passing through. Showers for sale at private homes, kids offering to walk on his aching back for a buck, makeshift museums (barns) of collected treasures, reconnecting with brothers and connecting with strangers. A final dip of his bike wheel in the Mississippi River, he lived the dream, he reached his goal.

Painful and difficult…goals…maybe that is why reaching them is like nothing else in the world. Maybe that feeling of success is what keeps us buying those planners…I need to find mine.