Deuces

Who was I in 1999? I don’t know. In the days before MySpace and Facebook and cell phones and Insta-everything we didn’t capture all our glory and post for the world to see in 1999. There aren’t any videos or well-posed filtered photos of me at 19.  I don’t even know if “selfies” were a thing.  But thanks to my bestest for digging through her personal archives, she texted me these photos from 99’- taken while we were in Spain when she came to visit me during my study abroad: These old photos that made me cringe, only momentarily, and then smile. The big, wide grin that transports you back to a time long ago, in a galaxy not so far away. I wondered why I was pale. I wondered if all of us gals had on shirts we’d bought from Zara- the one just near la Plaza Mayor.  I wondered if Maria’s hair can still get that big and curly (can it, Maria?) I wondered why I always covered the freckles on my nose- in 1999 and today. I wondered where my eyebrows were (damn you, Gwen Stefani for...

Letters from the heart- that’s what I love. Words and all the ways they can spoil you. Simple words, sincere words, a few words, many words.  And handmade necklaces and things from my children.  Happy Mother’s Day. “I put my thumbprint in gold instead of silver because your last name is “Dorado” Necklace and card from Sayler: Flowers in a painted mason jar from Alana she made at Montessori:

Alana. You’re two. I don’t know exactly where the time has gone.  I hear the pitter patter of your size 7 foot running across the tile.  I smile. It’s daddy’s night to put you and Sayler to sleep.  I am resting comfortably in my own bed.   He is losing his authority. And it makes me smile. Him telling you to get back into bed. The pitter patter of your feet running back to your room before he catches you.  This is Your current nightly game. Falling asleep requires you being held close. A bottle (because we’re awful parents and you still take a bottle) to fall asleep. And when that bottle finishes you always need another.  And when we get up to get you another- you follow us to the kitchen though we always tell you to “stay here”.  The pitter patter of your feet across the tile. Then again as you run back to your room. I am amazed by you every day. You can communicate better than any other 2 year old I know- and I’m not saying that to brag. Rather- just...

The moment the Southern California sunshine kissed my face I felt a bit better. It’s no surprise (I hope) to anyone that being gone for work for several days always makes me a bit anxious, a lot homesick, and incredibly disconnected and by the end of a long week of missing the connections I so desperately need, I have a hard time talking.  (Yes: me).  So if you see me at the end of a long few days away and I stutter or seem confused or bewildered- know that I am ready for a mental sabbatical and not ignoring you.  Know that I probably need a hug, a nice story, a few minutes of quiet, maybe something to read or write about.  When I’m gone for more than a couple days I miss the moments of connection and contentment I get from a warm hug, my kids telling me they love me, my husband kissing my forehead, and enjoying the simple joy of being quiet.  I came home from a few long days in Chicago and my family welcomed me the way I needed- with hot food and warm, aggressi...

It’s bedtime,  It’s dark, It’s thirty minutes of settling  Patty cake on my face My cheeks get planted, With kisses she’s so generously granted She fidgets and squirms Round my neck, her arms wrap tight,  And again I sternly say “now go ni’night!” Again we go round, As we settle in, Her body turns clockwise, Her foot to my chin, She kicks and she nestles, Then turns round once more, My body is starting to be pushed toward the floor. Her arm round’ my neck, Her milky hot breath, Her heart beats next to mine.

I’m not sure if the memories are true, Because I’ll never be able to ask you, And that is what weakens me most. To live them in my mind, and not yours, too, Those stolen moments and dreams  And wonderfully sweet things, Can you remember those things, even in Heaven?  I’d ask if I was right, “Remember that one night!?” And you’d frown and correct where I was wrong, You’d remind me of a detail, And I’d do the same, Until a picture, painted, within a shared frame. I’d tell you all the good things you’ve left with me, And in curiosity, I’d ask if I’d also given you any.  I’d like to hope, a few, but perhaps just one or two, Is all you could remind me of from Heaven.  If I see you again, I’ll say something witty (because that’s what I do when I’m nervous). I hope you will smile, and just sit for a while, to talk about life before pagers.  (See? That’s kind of funny when you stop to think about when we had pagers and the time before pagers even...).  I’m still wi...