Skip to main content


I sometimes wonder what my children will remember when they get old, like me.  Because 35 is just so, so ancient.  You know, compared to 34.  Or 30.  It's kind of a shock, actually, but I'm off track.

I used to think I would remember so many things.  The color of my favorite dress, perhaps.  The deserty smell of Tucson (not to be confused with the desserty smell of Thanksgiving pie).  The names of my very best (for the moment) friends.  The little moments of childhood that seemed so large and important.

But I don't remember much of it at all.  Little glimpses of the past, so tiny they often feel unreal.  In fact, I don't really even remember the early days of motherhood - Josh's first laugh, for example.  So important at the time, and now lost in the dusty folds of memory.  I remember moments, tiny little moments, and not much else.  I remember feelings, but mostly those feelings are overtaken by the feelings of today.  Regret for my actions.  Wonder.  Amusement.  Disappointment.  They wash out all the colors of the memory and leave a hazy pit in my stomach instead. 

That seems like a strange way to put it, but I don't know how else to describe it. 

There was a time when I thought I would remember everything.  But somewhere along the line I stopped paying so much attention.  The present always shoves its way in, intruding on the past and pushing it away.

I wonder, just now, if Carly will remember her day today.  (I am sure she probably won't, if my own memories are any indication.)  She woke up early (compared to me anyhow), practiced piano, and watched Garfield (her current favorite Netflix indulgence).  She was waiting for me when I finally rolled out of bed, she had her little black and white polka-dotted piano lesson book bag slung over her shoulder.  She was wearing a pair of black shoes that hurt her feet, but I didn't make her change because I wasn't interested in the battle.  We drove to piano lessons and she slept the whole way, her head lolling in the sun on the car seat.  Despite practicing barely 3 days out of 14, she did just fine at her piano lesson and then we went shopping at Hobby Lobby.  She wasn't very patient while I picked out fabric.  She wanted to know what it was for, but I wouldn't tell her because it's (hopefully) going to be Barbie doll clothes.  If I can do it.  She wasn't too thrilled with waiting for the fabric to be cut.  And she was hungry.  She wanted to eat RIGHT NOW, but she survived the wait.  I took her to Panda Express because she lost her first tooth, but I didn't let her eat until we got home.  On the way home she decided she wouldn't wear those black shoes again, thank goodness, and when we got home she decided her orange chicken was a little too spicey today.  She went out to visit friends with her dad.  And she got to ride a horse (without even a saddle).  She was very excited.  Then dad took her to the store (for ice cream).  She changed into a leotard.  Because that's what she wanted to wear for pajamas tonight.  And now she is sleeping. 

And I bet she won't remember any of it.  But I hope, like me, she remembers she was happy.


Popular posts from this blog

Dear Carly,

I assume that one day you will come to me wanting to know who you are, where you came from, where your other family is and why they gave you to us.  I offer you little bits of information already, but certainly not crumbs enough to satisfy the appetite.  Perhaps it won't matter to you.  I am assuming a lot, already, about how adoption will impact your life.

People often wonder why adoptive parents are hurt when their children seek out biological roots.  I have the answer, and it's very simple.  Adoption - at its core - makes us question the legality, authority, voracity, and validity of parenthood.  For most adoptive parents, first you must come to terms with an issue that strikes at the foundations of mortality: fertility.  From birth, most of us are driven to form families.  First we are nestlings, nurtured and weened and eventually taught to fly.  Then we are nest-builders, filling our lives with the stuff necessary to drive life forward.  Knowledge, safety, money, a sturdy …

On being away from home and turning sixteen: a letter to my son

Dear Josh,

I missed your sixteenth birthday.  I'm sure you recall - or maybe it wasn't so bad because you spent the whole day with your friend watching movies.  Godzilla and Guardians of the Galaxy, you've said.  It's no surprise to me that Godzilla was your favorite of the two.  That atomic green monster holds a special place in your heart.

It was very difficult for me to be away from you when you crossed this threshold in your life.  I remember turning sixteen, being sixteen, and wondering when I would feel like I was actually sixteen.  When I was sixteen, I went and found my first job, I started driving myself around, and I pretty much felt like I was in the wrong skin.  I'm only now, at 37, beginning to feel in the right skin.  Or at least comfortable with the skin I'm in.  But you - well, you don't seem to have a problem being you.  I can't explain how very happy that makes me feel, how very reassured.  Because it can be really hard not to like you…

Fragmented re-introduction

I dreamed a dream once of what this would be like.  Of life.  Of patterns and songs and ticking off boxes to find my way. 

Trouble was, I keep looking at the wrong list.

This year's list:

- Turn 40 (check)
- Move again (check)
- Send the boy on a mission (check)
- Finish admin license
- Get lost (check)
- Get found (check)
- Lost again (check)

Wait, that went off track. 

Adulthood is a lot of getting off track.  And back on.  It's weird.

I thought at 40, I would have it all together.

But, I'm barely keeping it from falling apart. 


So, this is me where I am now.

40, working, waiting.  My boy's on a mission in Boise.  My girl's 12 going on 20.  My husband hates his job most days, and loves it alternatively.  Same for me.  We live in a small town I don't like very much and dream of going somewhere else, but we don't know where that is. 

I want to be a writer, but I don't spend time writing.

I read something the other day that gave me hope: Guy Fieri…