Friday Photos! - Nostalgia Edition

I'm realizing more and more how far we've come in the past 22 months, and it has left me feeling a bit sentimental.  In honor of that, here's a little stroll down memory lane.

Ten Years Ago

This was me.

A high school senior, celebrating after the close of my very last high school theater production.*  Only a few weeks before graduation.  A few months before moving into the dorms to take a crack at living all on my own.  Finishing up what my grandfather told me would be the best years of my life.  I look back at myself, and I think:

Wow, I had a ton of hair.

Of course, that thought is quickly followed by: Wow.  Ten whole years.  In some ways, it seems like yesterday.  Mostly, though, it feels like a lifetime ago.  I had different friends.  Different priorities.  Different dreams.

Yesterday was my ten year high school reunion.  I was unable to attend for a variety of reasons, but it still occurred, marking a milestone in my ever-changing life.  Ten years ago, I was an adult, but still so much a child, in so many ways.  I had not yet held a job.  I had never lived all by myself.  I had never had the freedom - the terrifying, exhilarating freedom - to make all of my own decisions.  I had already met many of my closest friends.  I had already been dating Patrick for almost a year and a half.

But many of the things that define my life had yet to happen.  The loss of so many I held dear, particularly my grandmothers, who each helped shape my concept of what it means to be a wife, a mother, and a woman.  The divorce of my parents, and the ensuing loss of my childhood home.  The things I learned both in and out of class in college.  The births of my adopted nephews.  The bliss of finally saying "I Do" to the man I had loved for so long.  Finding the festival, and all of the wonder and heartache it brings.  The birth of my son, whose existence has completely changed every facet of who I am.

I look at that picture of the happy, carefree, long-haired girl and I see the sheer naive joy of the moment.

And yet, I have no desire to go back there.  Because my life now, at this moment, is even better than it was then.

And I realize, those were not the best years of my life.  These are.

*Girl Crazy, for those of you who are interested.

Forts

I remember, as a kid, building forts with my sister, and our cousin.  The three of us spent every spare moment we had at our grandparents' house.  We would race around outside.  Or try to think up ways to make money - our best idea was holding mini-carnival games and charging Grandpa a quarter to play each one.  Or we would climb trees.*  Or play with the neighbor kids.  

But mostly, we would build blanket forts.  Usually, outside, because Grandma would have had a fit if we had messed up her house with one.  For that matter, she probably would have had a fit if she knew we were using  her good sheets outdoors to build forts.  Grandpa was our secret ally in all of this, as he was in everything, sneaking sheets out to us, and then helping us to build the fort in a place where Grandma was least likely to glance out the window at us.

We would sit out there, shaded, but with soft breezes finding their way in, and talk.  Occasionally, we would play cards, or some other game.  But mostly, it was a secret place to talk.  I learned so much about my sister, my cousin, and myself in those forts.  Of all the things I miss from my childhood, the chats we had in those forts comes in toward the top of the list.

And last week, I passed on the tradition to Miles.

This one is pretty small, mainly because it was done on the spur of the moment, and without the proper supplies.  But, Miles found it to be adequate for eating in.  Dominic guarded the doorway.  I couldn't fit inside with them, so I sat on the floor nearby, and we talked and laughed all afternoon.

*Well, one tree.  It was the only one big enough to climb.  We called it the Cousin's Tree.

Book Club

When I first moved to the city, after a lifetime in small towns, I was desperately lonely.  Never had I lived in a place where I knew so few people.  Sure, we had a few friends here, but they lived (still live) 45 minutes away.  I felt isolated, alone in a city where I felt overwhelmed by the sheer number of people, and yet had so little meaningful contact with any of them.  Knowing I needed something, I went searching, and after a bit of effort, I found a book club.  And I loved it.

We would meet once a month at a house not far from me.  From my first visit, I felt welcomed, and accepted.  I was surrounded by intelligent, witty people, and each had a very unique perspective to offer.  There was the Jewish couple who hosted, each quite well-versed not only in their own religion, but in several others as well.  There was the skeptic, an atheist who sat in the corner, and politely and compassionately argued his reasons for disagreeing with religion in general.  There was the girl who studied (and was quite good at) astrology.  The disillusioned Catholic.  The agnostic.  And me, the relatively new Catholic.

We discussed the books, certainly - classics, every one - but inevitably, that would be left behind, in favor of new topics.  Current events.  Random philosophy.  The merits of living in one place over another.  Cats.  Dogs.  Gardening.  Coffee.  Food.  More philosophy.  And, invariably, religion.  Given our sundry backgrounds, and the open-mindedness of the group as a whole, our religious discussions were my favorite part.  I gained invaluable  insights into aspects of religion that I had never considered before.  Sometimes, we talked specifically about Catholicism, or Protestantism, Hinduism, Judaism, Agnosticism, Atheism.  Other times, we merely discussed the need for the human soul to explore the realm of spirituality, and the interesting ways that people chose to do so.  Our discussions spanned centuries, the entire extent of human existence.  Or only the moment at hand.

Unfortunately, all groups have a way of dissolving sooner or later.  For our book club, that time came all to soon.  It fell apart because we all, each separately, managed to stretch ourselves too thin.  Until one day, we found that we had lost the time to read the books.  Then, we ran out of time to attend the meetings.  The hosts  ran out of time to host them.  Before long, the book club we had all enjoyed so thoroughly was gone.

But I shall never forget.  Because that group was the first place I felt I belonged in this crazy city.  And for that, I am eternally grateful for those moments in time, however fleeting they may have been.

The Love of My Life

Twelve years ago today, I began dating the love of my life. We were high-schoolers.  I was 15, he was 16.  And we were madly in love, almost from the start.

I've known Patrick for most of my life.  For much of my childhood, he was the 'weird kid' who lived down the street from my cousins.  Once we hit middle school, I knew him as the Nerd Standard - the kid that all other nerds (myself included) were compared to.  You could be half as nerdy as Patrick, or almost as nerdy.  No one was ever more nerdy.  I have to admit, he intrigued me, even then.

Cue high school.  End of my freshman year.  I auditioned for "A Midsummer Night's Dream", and was cast as Puck.  Patrick was Egeus.  We began talking during down-times of rehearsals, and we became fast friends.  He was quiet, and yet unafraid to be loud when the occasion called for it.  We could talk on any subject, at length.  He was always polite.  And funny.  I loved spending time with him.

But I was young, and not at all certain what any of that meant.

Enter Ruth, a dear friend, with a sweet disposition, and a penchant for falling for all the wrong guys.  She always liked the Bad Boys, the guys who were going to treat her like garbage.  So, when she expressed an interest in Patrick, I did what any good friend would do: I talked him into asking her out.

Needless to say, that didn't work out.  They dated for less than a month before both came to the conclusion that they were entirely wrong for one another.  But their brief experiment was important, because it brought the beginning of something very important: Breakfast.  Each morning, when the bus had dropped us off, the three of us would eat breakfast together in the cafeteria.  It was the promise of breakfast with Patrick and Ruth that got me out of bed in the morning.

The school year came to an end, and summer began.  Patrick called a few times, and we talked for as long as our respective parents could bear the loss of their phone lines.  Before we knew it, the first day of school had arrived again.  I was still riding the bus, (Ruth had moved on to another school) and arrived nice and early, so I headed to the cafeteria.

Where Patrick was waiting for me.  I noticed for the first time how incredibly adorable he was.  And then shook off that feeling, so I could greet him without being awkward.

We ate breakfast together every morning after that, and it quickly became my favorite time of day.  Sometime late in the fall, we were talking one morning, and I looked up at him.  The sun was shining directly behind him, making him glow just a little, and he had just said something to make me laugh, his own smile lighting up his face.

I realized in that moment that I loved him.  And had for awhile.

Still, I was scared, and I wasn't about to push him, or make him uncomfortable.  I was afraid that I was going to tip this delicate balance, and our breakfasts together would stop.  I couldn't bare the thought of it, so I kept quiet, hoping that he felt the same way about me.

January 19, 1999.  Just after breakfast.  On the way out the door, he pulled me close, and whispered in my ear, "Will you be my girlfriend?"  The butterflies that my heart had become threatened to beat their way out of my chest via my throat, as I replied, simply, "Yes."

New Year

Yeah, I realize I'm off by a couple of days, but honestly?  I think it's close enough to still talk about the New Year.  And since I have nothing terribly interesting to tell you about our exciting year so far (we stayed in all weekend, organizing our house and taking turns being lazy), I thought I'd bore you with my New Year's Resolutions.

Let me just state for the record that I think the term "New Year's Resolution" is way overused - most times, when someone asks for your resolutions, you list off a litany of old stand-bys, with no real intention of following through.  I know.  I've done it.

And then, two years ago, I chose to use the new year as an opportunity to really look at myself and evaluate what I liked and didn't like about myself.  For the most part, I make no excuses, and refuse to feel guilty about the choices I make, because I know that they were the best decisions I could have made at the time, with the information I had available to me.  Two years ago, however, when I took that hard look at myself, I found that I had become . . . a Bitch.

Now, not all the time.  And certainly not as terrible as I could have been.  But I had always prided myself on being nice to people, and giving them the benefit of the doubt as often as possible.  And I wasn't doing that anymore.  I tended to see faults before I saw the value in a person.  I had become very judgmental about a lot of things.  And honestly?  I wasn't being nice.  At all.

So, I made my first New Year's Resolution of my adult life.*  I resolved to be nice for an entire year.

Apparently, however, God has a sense of humor, because a month after I had made that resolution, I found out I was pregnant.  What ensued was one of the craziest years of my life - I assistant-directed a musical for community theater, while still assistant-directing the Festival.  I had rehearsals five nights a week, and often on Saturdays.  Saturday evenings were a myriad of events - all of which I was obligated to attend.  Sundays turned into opportunities to promote our Festival, or the musical.  And I was still working 40+ hours a week at the office.  That summer, I also attended impromptu weddings for both my mother (in June) and my sister (in August), along with pre-planned weddings for two different sets of friends.

And through it all, I was hormonal and pregnant.  And trying desperately to be nice, when all I really wanted was ice cream, and a few minutes peace, followed by an opportunity to beat almost everyone upside the head.

Did I mention God has a sense of humor?

Regardless, I lived through the year.  I worked until three days before Miles was born.  And then we were back to performing by the time he was nine days old.  And through it all, I held tight to that resolution.  And I made it.

But after twelve months of being as nice as possible, I decided to take a year off.  I made zero resolutions at the beginning of 2010.  And it felt good. :)

However, 2011 is now here, and I feel I'm ready for a new challenge.  So, after far too much adieu, here are my resolutions for 2011:

• Get organized.  I am so tired of not being able to find a darn thing.  And I'm ready for things to move more smoothly.  I will get organized this year, if it kills me. :)
• Find balance.  Life is a juggling act - work is one baton, marriage another, housekeeping yet another, and on and on.  When Miles was born, I expected him to add a few batons to the mix.  It was more like a million.  And I lost my carefully choreographed routine.  I have spent a year diving to catch the batons I've dropped, each time dropping several more in the process.  It is time to find a way to keep all of those batons in the air - even if that means letting go of a few of the batons I have held on to so stubbornly.  Things will be changing this year, and I will find a new balance that works for all of us.

So, what about you?  What are your resolutions for the year?  Or do you think resolutions are dumb?  What changes are you hoping to see in 2011?

*I have to specify that, because I made all sorts of resolutions as a kid.  Most of them were about writing in my journal daily.  And we all know how that turned out. :)

Christmas Eve

As we prepared for Christmas last night, Patrick asked me if I had any Christmas Eve traditions that I wanted to pass on to Miles.  At first, I thought of the excitement of unwrapping that first present just before bed,* and reading the story of Christ's birth from the Bible.

And then I remembered my favorite tradition of Christmas Eve.  And it's not one I can really pass on to Miles.

When I was a kid, Christmas Eve was almost always reserved for Grandma Joy.  We would go over in the early afternoon to help make the dinner, then eat waaay too much, and play games until all of my little cousins passed out.  Slowly, people would trickle out until it was just me, my sister, and our cousin Tasha.  Then, it was time for our tradition.

Tasha was only three or four years old when we started this - at her request.  She was concerned that the animals in the woods behind Grandma's house wouldn't get to have a big Christmas dinner like we'd had.  She begged us to help her string popcorn, cheerios, berries, and any other little bits of food we could find into a garland.  Then, we would all troupe out to the woods to find the perfect tree.  In all the years we did this, it was never an evergreen tree, though I never thought of it at the time.  It was always some skinny little tree whose bare, leafless branches were low enough for us to reach.  Ever so carefully, already shivering in the cold, we would wrap our garland on the tree, and Tasha would pronounce, "Now, the animals have Christmas dinner, too."  And we would sing Christmas carols, that the animals might hear, and be cheered by them.

Inevitably, we would be halfway through a song, when out of nowhere, we heard jingle bells.  My sister and I knew our cue well.  One of us would say, "Do you hear that?"  and Tasha would squeal with delight, knowing that Santa was on his way.  We would point into the air, trying to convince one another that we had seen Rudolph's nose.  Exciting as the moment was, though, it was a sign that our evening was over - Tasha had to rush home to get in bed before Santa got there, or he wouldn't leave her any toys!

I had no idea at the time how special those moments were, or how often I would look back on them fondly, wishing that somehow, I could pass this tradition down to my son.  But we live a long way off, now, and won't be at Grandma Joy's on Christmas Eve.  And even if we were, it could never be the same.  Tasha is no longer the three-year-old child waiting on Santa, but a beautiful young woman on the verge of adulthood.  My sister is a married woman.  And I have a child of my own, who is so different from - and yet, so similar to - those three little girls who took food to the animals.

Someday, I will again find a wood, where I can hang a Christmas dinner for the animals.  But it will never be the same as those magical Christmas Eves of my childhood, shared with two of my closest friends.

Merry Christmas.

*Even though we knew it was clothes.

Quiet Moments

In these rare, quiet moments, when Miles is sleeping, I sit, alone in my chair, and I think.

I think of a time when toys did not decorate my living room.  A time when there was no jelly to clean off the couch.  A time when I could come and go when I pleased, without worrying about a nap schedule.  A time when sleeping in on the weekends meant not getting up until noon.  I think of a time before Miles.

And it hurts.

Because I didn't know how much I was missing.

I turn my thoughts to the present.  And I wait for him to wake up.

I wait for that angelic smile that will melt my heart.  I wait for the tousled hair, that will never stay brushed.  I wait for the hugs, and the kisses, and the mess.  I wait for the thundering of tiny footsteps running through the living room.  I wait for the tickles, and the giggles.  I wait for the soft hugs, and the piercing squeals of happiness that cannot be contained.

And my heart sings for the joy of it.

How to say good-bye?

Tuesday morning, my Grandma Joy passed away.

I don't really know what else there is to say about that. Especially since I haven't had time to process it yet, so it doesn't really feel real yet. Or maybe it's hard to realize that it just happened. I said my good-byes to her on Friday when she was awake and aware.

I don't really know yet. But tomorrow is the funeral. 3 hours away. And tomorrow night we open our Feaste. So, I'm not really sure how much grieving I'll be able to do with part of my brain going, "I only have x number of hours to get back." Plus, I'm certain part of my brain will be doing that whole, "Has Miles had enough to eat today? How do I allow him some play time throughout this horror of a day? Did I bring enough diapers?"

I'm a mess. Please ignore me for the next few days. I'm bound to be a big ol' bundle of bitch.

Because, you know, that's a great way to deal with the world, right?

Sleep

I feel like I'm always talking about sleep. How long Miles slept. How many times he woke up overnight. How many naps he's had. And always, how little sleep I am getting.

When I was a child, I fought sleep. Like crazy. I know this is where Miles gets it. I remember being 6 or 7 years old. It was summer, and my mother had sent my sister and I to our rooms to take a nap. Looking back, I'm sure she simply needed a moment to herself, to regroup and remember exactly why she loved us. I'm sure we had been a handful all morning, and she needed time to recover before another round in the afternoon. I remember, very clearly, going into my room and pulling my frilly pink comforter up to my chin. I remember laying there, staring at the ceiling, and the window, and my toys sitting across the room. I got up and went back out to the living room.

Mom: "I told you to take a nap. Go back to bed."

Me: "I did. It was a really short one. I'm up now! Can I go play?"

Mom: "No. Go back to bed. You have to sleep for at least half an hour."

Mom had that look in her eye that warned me not to argue, so I slunk back to bed, dejected. I pulled my frilly pink comforter up to my chin, again, and closed my eyes. No dice. I wasn't the least bit tired. I rolled over and tried again. Still not tired. I stretched all the way out and counted my breaths. I didn't even get to ten before I lost track. So I rolled back to my back and stared at the ceiling.

I started thinking about school, and what we'd learned recently. In math, we had been talking about minutes and seconds and hours. Sixty seconds was one minute. Thirty minutes was a half hour. If I counted to sixty, that would be one minute. If I did that thirty times, I could get up from my nap!*

I started counting. I kept track of the sixties on my fingers. One sixty. One minute. Two minutes. Eventually, I got to ten, and ran out of fingers. I stopped, stumped for the moment. Well, I knew I had ten minutes, so I could start the fingers over at eleven, and then later at twenty-one. Off I went.

Eventually, I got to thirty minutes. I immediately jumped out of bed and ran into the living room.

Mom: "I told you to go back to bed. Half an hour, remember?"

Me: "Yep! I counted! It's been thirty minutes."

Mom: "It's been five minutes. Go back to bed. I will come and get you when it's time to get up. I promise. Go."

I walked back to bed, never able to figure out where I had gone wrong. I had counted. A lot. It should have worked, and it didn't. I turned it over and over in my head as I laid down, and pulled up the frilly pink comforter one more time. I still hadn't figured it out when I finally fell asleep from pure exhaustion of thought.

I know exactly where Miles gets it. :)

* Please note that it didn't occur to me that I had lost count of my breaths at less than ten. I was determined to count to sixty. Thirty times.