Snapshots

Miami Memories

I take out the album. A lot. There are times the snapshots I pour over are simply in my mind, other times they are real.

Flipping through the pages, I recall those early days of Single Motherhood, when my son was still just a toddler with those same cerulean blues eyes that I find page after page looking back at me. Leafing through the pages, I see him on his first day of kindergarten dressed in his tie and starched blue pants of his prep school uniform. Then, more pages and my eyes begin to mist.

 A sigh so deep, it is felt in my heart…

The fish he caught dangles from the line, pictured on the next page I linger on. He is at my parents’ lake house where he caught his first fish, sitting on the edge of the dock swinging his then small feet in the coolness of the water. His sense of pride in an accomplishment is evidenced in his eyes, defying the curmudgeonly neighbor who had moments before chided him that there were no fish to be caught off a dock.

There he is again with his Specialized, the one he worked all summer long to buy. All these years later, he willingly narrates the story of going with his then best friend and looking in Cyclesport at their bicycles. Rows and rows, some for racing, some for touring and still a host of others. And, then he found the one that would drive his dream. His smile induces me to smile. His accomplishment draws pride in the telling, to this day.

The page then comes with him holding his Scottish Terrier close. The love of his life. She held his heart, but he held hers tighter still. It brings to mind him in a grumpy mood on more than one morning, sitting at the kitchen table eating waffles slathered with butter and syrup. He would ignore his dog, still in his funk from having to rise earlier than he would have chosen. She would have nothing of being ignored, and would scratch her paw across his leg waiting to be acknowledged. Loved. He would push her away. She would come back, again. He would push her down, with less authority. The battle would be won by her, of course. Soon the grumpiness would subside and with one hand he would ruffle her black coat and with the other hand fork man-sized bites of waffles into his mouth. She did what I hadn’t been able to many a morning, and I was grateful.

Thumbing through, I find the photo of the day he earned his black belt. The day I had to sit and watch as my son fought 10 black belts. Each was fresh without a fight that day, lined up to see if they could bring him to his knees. They didn’t, but I was brought to mine in wanting to rescue him – which of course I didn’t – because it brought him one step closer to the man I dreamed he would one day become. Radiant, in this snapshot, he is tying that hard earned belt around his waist.

The pages turn more quickly now.

There are so many captured moments on the soccer field. And, then the love in his sports life became football and the pictures of the joy of his passion for the game is seen in his body, in the firm plant of his foot, the arc of the ball high above the field, the hands with one finger each pointed to the sky, when the touchdown was made.

More pages yet, faster now. The prom a different year, a different girl. Then his first car – the Jeep Grand Cherokee, a hand me down until his “sexy” came along. I stop on that page, the snapshot where he is leaning, arms crossed against the gleaming white of the new Mustang. The smile he wears is cool, with a hint of the pride he feels in the muscle car that is now his own.

And, I come to a favorite. Not all that long ago. It is us. Together.

We are standing in front of Joe’s Stone Crab in Miami Beach, a family favorite frequented by my grandfather whom my son was so aptly named after. We have just finished dinner, are about to leave and have decided for a moment to pose for a photo in the inkiness of the warm night. He is a man now. Our smiles remain the same, our eyes speak of our connection, not only of the genetics that will always hold us but of how we have traveled so far. Together.

I marvel at how I survived it all.

Then I hear him say when recalling the makin’ of those memories of his childhood and the snapshots captured and those in which are nestled in my mind, “I had the perfect childhood.”

And, in those simple, fine words I am comforted. Justified. I find sweet redemption and am reminded that just because I made my way on my own as a Single Mother – and still do – that my son calls his life one that is filled to overflowing with snapshots worth keeping and treasuring and returning to, just as I tend to every now and again in the pages of my mind.

I forgot how beautiful you are…

Beautfiul Lady Liberty

 

I am a New York City girl. Not that I actually grew up there but the Big Apple was so close by, and my father long had an office there, making trips into this great city was quite common. Then, once I became old enough to travel in on my own I did so quite frequently. To see a show. Meet friends for dinner. Or, best of all to shop.

 Living a bit farther from the NYC than my childhood home was, I do not get in as frequently as I would most certainly like to. Admittedly, presented with any excuse – which includes accompanying my 22-year-old son to his doctor’s appointments every now and again – I will not decline the opportunity to travel to the city, even if the trip only includes the appointment and grabbing a bite of lunch at some fabulous eatery.

Some days back, I had the rare opportunity to be in New York City with someone who had never before been. Rare, I say, because anyone and nearly everyone I know has visited the city numerous times.

With plans in place, we were going to make sure that we visited all the sites. Trekking to places I could not recall a time I was not familiar with them, with someone who had never seen or been to them, was novel. I began to the see the city through a clearly renewed lens.

 I fell in love with New York City, all over again.

Seeing it anew awakened my desire for it. It created a hunger for all things New York, in me, that I had thought must have ceased to exist. I craved more, as we left at the end of the weekend.

As we were driving home, I thought of how reminiscent this is of people and relationships in my own life. I have become so accustomed to “having them” that I have in some sense forgotten how beautiful, and how much to be treasured these people and these relationships really are.

Like a reel of an old time movie, I played out scenes with people in my life over and over in my mind. Had I told them enough how valuable they were to me? Had I appreciated their presence in such a way that there was not a question in their mind that they mattered? Did I see them for what they were, in all their golden newness?

How much more important, than a great and grand city, are those in our lives that we should fully notice, and appreciate them. Every day. I recognize that I need to be more aware of those who touch my life.

Suffice it to say, I have promised myself more trips to my beloved Big Apple but more importantly I have committed myself to living a life that is more aware of the blessed people I get to call my own, whether family or friends.

My Life is Autographed

Autographs...

When I was in the third grade, I had an autograph book that was turquoise blue. On the front it had a sketch of a little girl who could most certainly could have been me, the likeness was so similar. She had pigtails and bangs, freckles peppered her nose and cheeks and her eyes were Coke bottle green. My birthstone is turquoise, so I felt that book had been created uniquely just for me, and the autographs that I would collect.

On the last day of school, I took that autograph book to school for all my friends to sign.

I still recall what one of my friends wrote – a friend I still have to this day – “I will be your friend till Niagra falls don’t fall.” She wrote love, and signed her name with the appropriate flourish. Somewhere, packed away in the treasures from my past is the autograph book.

That turquoise autograph book came to mind when planning for my first book signing. I recalled that end of school day – how I chose each person who would sign my book, and how special it was to be asked to sign someone’s else autograph book. Not every one got asked, so when my signature was requested it made feel important, singled-out, chosen, cared for. Very special.

The events leading up to my first book signing were not always easy. It took living the life of a Single Mother to afford me the opportunity to write, from my heart, a book for others who like me were mothering on their own. I thought of all the autographs signed on the pages of my life – and that of my son – over those years that allowed me to not only survive Single Motherhood but to thrive. I was blessed. We were blessed.

Our lives were autographed.

In looking back on those many, many years I see a greater and more powerful hand autographing each of our lives.

God.

His hand was so clearly writing out the days we lived. He was signing the circumstances. He was scripting the hours. He was autographing every single moment.

In those times, I didn’t always have the clarity, or the distance from what was happening, for that matter, to see how at work God really was. How though times were difficult, hard to endure even, we were truly and greatly and immensely blessed. God was there autographing the events, signing the blessings, writing on our lives.

And, I thought of the book signing, another autograph on my life, from God. He orchestrated my dreams, and then He signed the events that brought them to fruition.

Not a Support Bra, Not a Pair of Support Undies… Get Yourself Some Real Support. Girlfriends

Girlfriends

As a Single Mother, I often made excuses at the end of a long day – especially in the beginning – to my girlfriends. I would beg out of plans we had made for a girls night out. I would cancel because I was tired, and overwrought with the emotions and guilt that came as a result of a failed marriage and a little boy who would grow up without a father.

In the beginning, I isolated myself, largely out of exhaustion. At the end of the day, I didn’t have the energy to be the effervescent me I had once been. I didn’t have the verve to laugh at jokes when life was so hard at times that I struggled to find the next breath.

So, my girlfriends stepped in. One in particular was the ringleader. After one too many cancellation calls from me, she contacted my Mother.

Unbeknownst to me, she and my mother concocted what would prove a well-executed plan. She would arrive at my house, after getting the call from my mother signaling her that my son was well and fast asleep. Her auburn hair flying behind her, she would start with my closet. Tossing outfits on my bed and issuing commands in my direction, she was not to be stopped.

I had a choice. I could leave the house in my PJs or I could pick one of the outfits she had chosen and put it on. I could go out with my hair in the ponytail, mussed fresh from the pillow where my head had been laying next to that of my son as he fell asleep or I could do my hair and don so make-up.

The plan worked. I got dressed, headed out.

It took more than once or even twice before I could muster up the energy on my own and the where with all to understand just how much I needed my girlfriends, and the support they offered. I needed time with them, laughing with them. I needed to remember that while I was and always would be a mother, I was a girlfriend too.

Over the years, my girlfriends rescued me many a time in many ways. And, I am ever grateful.

Years later, if it weren’t for my girlfriends, I would not have survived those early days after my son’s diagnosis with a degenerative disease. It was my girlfriends who had faith, when I didn’t. It was my girlfriends who would pray when all I could do was cry. It was my girlfriends who arrived with dinners and flowers and zaniness. It was my girlfriends who held me up, through it all, till I could walk on my own.

Through the hard times and the of best times, it’s my girlfriends who have been there…

Get yourself some.

     The following is a little “diddy” that has been passed along in chain letters, appeared on cards in various forms and floated through the internet. This  is my version:

Young and expecting the world to fall into my lap, I sat on the porch, in a rocker, with my Gran. I was sipping sweet tea.

My Gran was always one to get right to the point….

“Get yourself yourself some girlfriends,” she said, tapping her lacquered nails against the glass topped table as if to emphasize her point.

“You are going to need them.”

I felt I had it all… But, I listened, anyway.

“You are going to need girlfriends. Go places with them. Do things with them.”

What a funny thing for my Gran to say, when all in my life seemed so right, so smooth, with everything going so perfectly in the right direction.

I was so young, little did I truly know.

But, I listened to my Gran, I kept the girlfriends I had, the ones that had been with me since kindergarten, and who had held my hands – one on each side – when I cried nearly every day for those early weeks of First Grade. And, I got some more along the way, over the years.

As the years tumbled by, and turned to decades, gradually I came to REALLY know that my Gran truly knew what she was talking about.

And, so I am going to tell you what I know about MY girlfriends and why you need to get yourself some of your own:

Girlfriends bring food and scrub your bathrooms, and clean your kitchen when you are sick.

Girlfriends keep your children safe for you, when you aren’t at their side, and they keep your secrets safe too.

Girlfriends give you advice, even when you don’t ask for it – sometimes you take it and sometimes you don’t. When you don’t do the right thing, girlfriends hold you accountable.

Girlfriends don’t always tell you you are right, but they are always, always honest.

Girlfriends are the ones you can trust to tell you when a dress makes you look fat.

Girlfriends laugh with you, and they don’t need a joke to start the laughter that goes on and on until your belly aches.

Girlfriends pull you out of jams, and they don’t say ‘I told ya so’ they simply hold you when you cry.

Girlfriends do not keep a record on their calendar of the last time they had you over for dinner. In fact, the don’t keep a record of anything they do for you.

 Girlfriends are there for you – in an instant – when the hard times come.

Girlfriends listen when you lose your job, or your husband.

Girlfriends hear and understand when your children break your heart, and then they tell you that that happened to them too.

Girlfriends are the ones who are there for you when your parents, those people you think that you might not be able to ever live without, bodies and minds begin to fail, and when you feel so alone its as if you are an orphan. Girlfriends are there.

MY girlfriends bless my life in untold ways – When I was young, I didn’t know the incredible joys that we would share, or the incredible sorrows they would walk me through. I never knew, back on that porch with that sweet tea in my hand, how much I would need my girlfriends over the years.

Redemption, Jelly Beans & a Birthday

Mother & Son

Though I have been told numerous times – by my mother, my high school writing teacher, my college professors, my grad school adviser – never to use cliches. I simply must.

 Timing is everything.

 Within the space of little more than a week it all happened. Redemption. Jelly beans. A birthday.

 It was in Miami months ago, sitting in a hotel room that felt like home, we had been there that long, that my son stumbled on the listing of my book on Amazon.com. There was no preemptive “check-it” peaks to see if it was listed, no putting my name in the author search. I was so excited, I did what I always do. I cried. Quiet tears that flowed seamlessly down my cheeks.

 My little girl dream was one step closer.

Since the first grade, I had dreamed of writing a book. I had ideas that swirled and danced and made their way through my mind, over the years. But, becoming a Single Mother took the focus off book writing and onto bill paying. There would be time for that later, instead I was hunkered down being a mom, and writing to pay the bills not further my career or advance my dream.

 “Mom,” then the silence that ensues when my son sees the tears and stops to acknowledge his often emotional Mother, with a lopsided one dimple grin. “Don’t you see, through what you thought was the toughest thing you faced, your dream came true.”

 Redemption.

 The redemption came so purely and sweetly through the time that I felt that I had failed the most. In becoming a Single Mom, I thought that I was offering my son less than the perfect life he deserved. And, yet he looks back on his childhood and calls it blessed, overflowing with love, goodness, laughter, surrounded by family. That’s what he sees is what I gave him.

Just before his birthday, the book that came from being his mother – a Single Mother – is on shelves, available to other mothers. A hands-on experience on the pages, telling and offering the hope which I often found hard to find. But, once I found it the experience of single mothering became a golden one in my life.

Days later, on a shining, sparkling day after a frigid, snowy winter followed by an April filled with dreary, rainy days we celebrated Easter. As we shared the holiday meal dining al fresco beside a river, I was reminded of the color-bright promise of jelly bean filled Easter baskets. The truth that the cross of Easter offers new beginnings and that all my mistakes from years ago, and just moments ago are not remembered by God. Ever.

I breathed in that sweet early Spring day, and I felt it fill me full to overflowing with promise. The hope of a future. The grace of today, which was proceeded by rain but awakened by the shining of a sun filled day. The joy fills me, like a basket brimming with brightly colored jelly beans.

Before I know it, the day has come. The reminder of all my little girl dreams birthed in a boy just over two decades ago. Again, that little girl is revisited in my mind. I am rocking my doll baby, Joey John, and pretending the future. Being mother to a boy, with cerulean blue eyes and dark brown hair. I was already his mother all those years ago – if only in those thoughts born of my imagination.

 It is now in all these moments, that I find myself once again resorting to cliché. All in good time. I find that it is. His timing, not my own. And, it is simply perfect timing.