14 Romantic Things My Husband Did on Valentine’s Day

1. He forgot to make reservations at the restaurant I wanted to go to, but then found another restaurant I hadn’t even asked about since it was on the other side of the island. 
   
2. Peter offered, “I’ll bring us some lunch and then we can go spend the afternoon in Fredriksted.” I said I wasn’t hungry. Knowing what I really wanted to do, he made a sandwich, and we left to find the abandoned puppy we’d been trying to catch for nearly two weeks now. He knew I worried about the mange that spread throughout her body and knew I wanted to bring her to the St. Croix Animal Welfare Center. “We won’t have a lot of time because the historic buildings will be closing soon,” I nodded, OK. We spent over an hour trying to get her. When she finally had had enough hot dogs and enough of the crate, we packed it up. As we pulled away, he said “We can try again tomorrow.” That was all I needed to hear.  
   
3. He took me to a historic sight. When the manager asked why he didn’t want to show me something nice on St. Croix, his response was, “This is nice.” As we left and bid the manager good bye, she reminded him again, “Now, take her somewhere nice.” He promised he would. Putting his arm around me he asked, “Did you like it?” I said. “I did.”
4. I caught him looking at a woman in a mirror.
   
   Instead of it being some unsuspecting passerby, the woman turned out to be me. 
5. He rushed me while I was shopping for a t-shirt for our son. I was a little annoyed until he reminded me that there was a clothing store I was interested in seeing, but it was closed when we were here last. (It was closed when we finished with the dive shop, too. But he tried.)
6. He kept interrupting me, returning our conversation to my writing whenever I tried to change the subject.
7. He turned the car around so that I could get a better picture.
8. He commented on my make-up, saying you look great, but you don’t need any of that to look beautiful. 
   
9. He offered to let me drink the cocktail he ordered if I didn’t like mine.
10. He didn’t do one thing as he drove that caused me to gasp or pump the brakes that I pretend are on my side of the car.
11. He asked directions instead of going up and down the block a million times like we usually do.
12. He brought up a mistake he’d made and apologized for it, unprovoked.
13. He read the blog I wrote for him. He insisted I publish it even though it didn’t really paint him, me or us in the best light. http://ceciliadiniodurkin.blogspot.com/2018/02/with-or-without-him.html “Regardless, it’s so beautifully written, it needs to be read.”  He said.
    
14. When I first got to the Island, I started to unpack but stopped myself. This is his gig. I didn’t want to infringe. “No, please.” He said. I didn’t want to use his new hairbrush for fear I’d find another women’s hair coiled in it. I didn’t want to open drawers, in case I’d find evidence of another woman in his life. On Valentine's Day, when I began to pack since I would return to NY in a few days, I asked if I could leave a few things. “Sure, “ he said. What he didn't say was, “Does that mean you like it here? Does that mean you'll come back?" He looked at me and said one of the most romantic things he's ever said, "I was hoping you'd at least leave your tooth brush.” So, I did. 

With or Without Him

I'm visiting him here in the Virgin Islands. We were apart for a month, so I came down for two weeks. It will be another month after I leave before I see him again. He gets to take a week off after 4 weeks on. He's here as part of the Disaster Relief efforts. I'm hoping we can avoid any disasters at home. 

How ironic that I would be engrossed in a collection called "Home: American Writers Remember Rooms of Their Own." I slowly consumed the essays. I didn’t realize the significance of this book to me until I looked around the rental property where my husband now lives. I hadn't truly seen it for what it was. His new place. And here I was, determining a space of my own. Both of us looking for a place to call home.

As a product of abandonment, I am always trying to belong. I have moved several times with my parents, moved more times as a college student, then embarked on a ruthless moving schedule after being married, some years more than once. Our daughter would tell people, at 11, she had just as many houses as years of life. Was it tough on us? Was it welcome? Was it him? for him? Or me? for me?

This latest trial in our marriage is due to him accepting a job in the Virgin Islands. As I thought it happened, he was solicited; but in reality, he solicited the move. He contacted a former colleague and before we knew it, he had accepted. More money, a new job, and a new life.

Of course, he consulted me. Laid out all of the positives for him, us, me. (in that order). I said yes! I needed some time on my own. I craved some space. Now that the kids were both off on their own, I could focus on my writing, on my finishing my memoir. “Yes. Go.” I said.

Until it started to sink in. He would be living in the Virgin Islands for a month at a time. He would have a week off, but no time off in between. He would be far away. Far from me. What was this exactly? Were we headed for a divorce?

As I stewed in the unsaid, ruminated on the possibilities, fantasized about the many indiscretions he could get himself into. I voiced my objections.

By phone, night after night we’d have long bitter brawls. Sometimes our connection would fail. Sometimes I hung up. Sometimes he did. Because the decision and putting it into action happened within a month of each other. The final date for his move was issued a week prior. There wasn’t really time to think.

Back in NY, the coldest temperatures hit with two snowfalls and the plow a no show.  He didn’t want to rub in that he was living in a $2Mil home with panoramic views of the ocean from every room. That he had a brand new truck he was driving that the company was paying for, while I struggled with our 10-year-old used contraptions. He only sparingly told me of the new restaurants he and his friend from Brooklyn, who also would be part of the hurricane recovery team, were frequenting and new bars he was discovering.

Even though I knew in my heart, this was what we needed to pay bills, to keep him from spiraling into depression after returning to his engineering office in Nyack, after years of autonomy in the office in Brooklyn, to help me focus on writing, I still was overcome and overwrought by my childhood fears. “This is for the good of our family.” He said. “We can pay for the kids’ education, allow them to have the things they need.” He assured me. “We can really save up and then live the life we want in Oregon or wherever we want. This is a good thing for our family.” He said one night while I cried hysterically on the other end. “That’s what my parents said, too.” I finally blurted out. And it was true.

My parents’ decision to move to the United States to take jobs and leave their young children behind was a decision that has defined me. From that moment on, I was abandoned. Of course, it would only be a year that we lived apart. They left us in the care of our remaining family members. But it was a tough year. Our unmarried aunt, the youngest of my mother's sisters, resented being our caregiver. My mom would tell me later that Tita Chet would not be able to study for her college exams because she was caring for us. Our mother's parents were strict and cold, unaffectionate. Our grandmother was a teacher yet did not know how to care for us, having maids do most of the unpleasantries. Our grandfather ruled with an iron fist. As it turned out, he was the reason we were separated from our parents for so long. Our mom and dad had only meant to leave for two weeks, get settled with housing upon which time our grandfather and aunt would bring us to the USA. But each week, our grandfather refused to board the plane. Finally, our mother threatened to return for us. That’s the only reason our grandfather relented. To him, raising children in the US was going to be a disaster. The children would grow up spoiled, disrespectful, forgetting their culture and leaving the Philippines behind forever. In many ways, he was right.

Nonetheless, while away from us, our parents presented a happy front. They sent pictures of them at parties with their new friends, laughing in front of landmarks, even holding other people’s children. I grew up thinking they had left us, did not care about us, moved on.

Many of the feelings were stirred up by Peter’s leaving. How could they not?

I felt like he was having a damned good time without me. His new acquaintances were fresh ears to tell his stories. Dominating the conversation, Peter would be able to speak ad nausea with no one to stop him. He’d be able to flirt and check out women with me nowhere in sight. Shit, we weren’t even on the same continent! He was free!

Sometimes, I truly believed he went there to get rid of me. Leave me to take care of all of the stuff that made up the life we put together and while he pretended to be doing it for us, he’d one day stop answering my calls and disappear from my life all together. On particularly dark days, that's what I believed.

After 34 years together, I knew Peter would “do the right thing” even if that wasn’t what he wanted to do. That is, he’d do it to a point, then, he’d convince himself that it’s OK to do this or that because…he’d fill in the blank. Entitlement, embodied in a middle-class white boy from America is pretty damn convenient. He let himself get away with murder over the years. But this time, I wasn’t going to let him.

Just admit it, I’d demand during some of my worst days, Just tell me already that you don’t want THIS life and this is your way of getting rid of it/me. He’d deny it. Tell me that you secretly think you can have your cake and eat it too? You can coerse me into believing that one day you’d like me to move here but in reality, you want the freedom to have affairs and flirt and check out other women until one day you find one that you want to settle down with. Tell me that you’ll push me so far that I’ll finally just walk away and then you can have this life and it won’t be your fault because it will be me who leaves.

But he swears this isn’t the case. He says things like  "You don’t understand. I am lost without you.” “If this goes on for longer than six months, I will just come home. I don’t want to be without you for that long.” “I’m doing this for us, if there isn’t going to be an us, then I’ll just stop doing it.”

But we have a history. Over thirty years of him pushing me away, or hurting me, finding what pushes my buttons and doing it. This is the ultimate way of hurting me. Different from the time he left for Turkey, then England because at that time, I didn’t want him. He was so down all of the time and nothing I did could break his depression. I felt I was to blame. That was the first time I looked into a divorce. Would this be the last and final time?

Which puzzles me, because we were getting along. We had resolved to having a future. Growing old together. And then this.

We’ve spoken at length about his issues with his mother, his family, his childhood. How lately, he as a 12-year-old boy has needed to take control, to speak out and defend adult Peter. Why?

Is the 12-year-old really the one that tells him it’s OK to flirt and check out women? Not being able to control himself, making excuses for doing something I don’t want him to do? According to Peter, he came to understand how much it hurt me, how it stirs up my feelings of abandonment, how I couldn’t hear him when he said he loved me. All I could see was how disrespectful he was and lately, I believed more and more that he did these things to keep me at bay, to make me insecure, feel like I can and would be abandoned.

He had been gone since January 2 and we were arguing about this situation on a daily basis. A few days before my 55th birthday, I repost "Birthdays from Hell". I knew all along that he wouldn't be home for my birthday, so, I made due. I made plans of my own. 

It was Sunday, the day before my birthday, when he texted me. He heard there would be island-wide cellphone and internet outages. We had experienced several instances of this already. He just wanted me to know in case I tried to reach him that the cell phone service might be out. I said, OK.

I went about my day. Monday, my actual birthday, I was going to spend the day at a spa. So, on Sunday, I went to bed early. I figured he had no cell phone coverage, so I wouldn't miss his call. Since he’d been on St. Croix, we hadn’t had a night where we didn’t talk well into the next day. Poor guy. He had early morning meetings with his boss. I would keep him up past his bedtime. And so, I too was up late. This was a break in our arguments and in our sleep patterns. I was happy to get into bed, turn out the lights and sleep before 11pm.

I heard my phone go off. I was trying to wake up and focus on it when I heard someone open my bedroom door. “Markham?” I started to say. But when I heard my bedroom door close, I knew it wasn’t him. Our son tended to storm in with whatever thing he wanted to tell me or show me but leave the door open so he could exit just as abruptly. I heard shoes, footsteps coming my way. My mind started to formulate the words "Oh, Oh!" when I saw that it was Peter. “What are you doing here?” I gasped before burying my face into this torso to give him a hug. “Peter!” I exclaimed unbelievingly. 

“I read your blog." he said. "I was sobbing. I had a few things to do for work and then I called my boss (his boss of 20 days) and said, I am all caught up and don’t have any meetings for the next two days. Can I go home in time for my wife’s birthday? And he said, yes. So, I got a plane ticket, rented a car and here I am.” It was just after midnight and as was his master plan, he was the first to wish me a happy birthday.

After that, how do I question him? 

Because he’s insecure. Because, so am I. Because he wants to live here in the Virgin Islands and I’m afraid he’ll flirt or check out other women or worse and then I can’t be with him any longer. Because we’ve had over 30 years, a lifetime, no, several lifetimes of hurt that just keeps coming. Because,  I’m tired. I’m done.

A medium once told me that I this would be my last time on this earth. Peter and I believe we’ve been together as hunter and gatherers. We’ve been together during the end of the Roman Empire, during the expansion West and other times in between. When I told Peter that this was my last incarnation, he knew it already. He hung his head and said, “I know, and I’m going to miss you.”

Does that mean that I accomplish my task and move “up”? Or that I fail and don’t get another shot? Does it mean I have free choice and move on? Or does it mean I get him to change and so we move on together? I don’t know. 

We don’t really know what the universe has planned for us. What we do know is that we can believe in fulfilling our destiny to the best of our ability and hopefully, fulfill it with more happiness than pain. 

If I truly believe I’m meant to be with him, then I should be with him. Trust him. Put my trust in him. 

After all, what’s the alternative? A life without him?

Natural-Child Birth

Sitting on the banks of the Delaware, on the deck of a house belonging to friends, I read while Peter and his buddies fished a few yards away. Engrossed by my book, I barely noticed my surroundings, except when the creatures in the story seemed to come to life. A large centipede materialized inches from my toes. Deer emerged from the thickets, undeterred by my presence. An extra-large moth landed on my shoulder, as if on cue. 

It was May and prime flyfishing season. Peter and his pals came here for just that. I had joined him, upon his insistence. We were on the verge of a divorce. I didn’t know what this weekend would hold. 

From the splashes and hoots that came from the water, I knew the guys were reeling in the fish. One after another. They returned excited, jovial, celebratory. They broke out the scotch. Glass after glass of Macallan. We finished the bottle and were lit for the rest of the evening. At midnight, the guys went back out to the water, their angling aided by the light of the full moon.  

Nearly nine months later, I found myself questioning what would be happening to us once this baby was born. At one point, I looked into the face of the man I was ready to leave just months before and asked, “What if she doesn’t like me?” After all, it wasn’t that long ago when I questioned how much he liked me. He leaned in to try to get his arms around me and her, “Of course, she’ll like you. Oh Cecilia, she’ll love you. How could she not?” 

“I wish you were here.” She texted me the other day. I responded, “Me too!” but I didn’t really mean it. I am glad she is there, doing what she’s dreamed of, and enjoying every minute of it. While I love that she wants me with her, I’m only glad to let her go. I do wish I were there to see her face when she saw that first wild sloth, or the one that hung upside down just feet from her, or the tiny baby who reached out to touch her. I wish I were there waiting for her to return after her observations so I could see and hear the excitement in her voice telling me about her evening as she slowly falls asleep. I wish I were there to explore other parts of Costa Rica, but I’m so proud of her for going there on her own. I wouldn’t want to spoil that accomplishment. I wouldn’t want to take that away.  

As she turns 23, I’m thankful for her opportunity to study sloths in Costa Rica. As soon as she got to The Sloth Institute, she was able to see a Vet revive an unconscious baby. Using telemetry, she ventures into the jungle each night to track her tagged targets. While there, she’s encounters snakes, scorpions, tree frogs. She’s been lucky enough to see elusive nocturnal creatures like tamandua, ocelots, bats and of course, the sloths. (Sigh)

I can’t help thinking that she was conceived on a magical night that changed the fate of Peter and me. That she was the product of that full-moon, a prolific night of fishing, when the stars aligned and the river bore fruit. And from that moment forward, she has proven to us that we were meant to be, meant to be together. After all, she was born to prove Peter wrong. That he was meant to a be a father and his daughter (and son) would give his life meaning. 

Macallan as a child would turn out to be an amazing animal whisperer. She rode horses as a toddler and continues to wrangle into adulthood. She fishes, hikes, picks up snakes, slugs, and scorpion. She is unafraid of the night, the ocean, the river and the forest. She is most at home in the wild. 

I foster what I can; her art, singing, performing, although she didn’t get those talents from me. 

Together, Peter and I encourage her in all her pursuits, although we won’t take credit for her country music leanings or her love of tattoos. We couldn’t be prouder of her accomplishments, her talents, her beauty and brains…and we know that while she may be the best of us, she was divinely blessed by the very elements she has always embraced.  

Happy 23^rd Birthday, Macallan! We’re sorry we won’t be there to help you celebrate but we hope it’ll be a birthday you’ll always remember - there among the animals of the night and the marine creatures by day. 

The Legacy of Johnny Clegg

Last night, we went to see Johnny Clegg's "Final Journey" as he says good bye to his fans. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and set up this tour shortly after finishing his treatments earlier this year. We bought tickets right away. While we seldom go to concerts, even avoid restaurants where bands are playing, going to see Johnny Clegg, for us, is a must.

Peter was hooked after hearing Johnny Clegg and Juluka on the radio while he was going to Villanova in the early 80's. He and some frat brothers caught a show when the band played Phillie. That was that. But of course the guy who dreamed of going to Africa from when he was seven, would love the South African crossover band, steeped in African sound and an anti-apartheid message. He would come to find out over the years, this white Zulu, didn't just appropriate the music, but spoke not only fluent Zulu, but deep Zulu, understanding the cultural nuances and traditions as if they were his own.

Of course, that first song that grabbed Peter was "Scatterlings of Africa" and it was particularly poignant seeing it for the 6th and probably the last time, this evening. According to the man himself, while he may have written better songs, written songs that made more money, this was his favorite song.

After Clegg said that, I wondered which one was mine. With so many great songs, how could I pick one?

In "The Crossing" I think of my brother who was murdered 22 years ago. The verse about a
"punch drunk man in a downtown bar
takes a beating without making a sound,
through swollen eyes he sways and smiles
because no one can put him down.
Inside of him a boy looks up at his father
for a sign or an approving eye,
Oh it's funny how those once so close to us and now gone
can still affect our lives."

My husband, may have a different song as his favorite, I know that "Cruel, Crazy, Beautiful World " is the one I think of as his song to our children. Early on in our marriage, we were having a difficult time, we went to see a marriage counselor where we found a shocking revelation. While I had always wanted children, he admitted in our sessions that he did not. At the time, I thought he didn't want them as a rejection of me, but I came to find out that he didn't want to bring innocent children into the world we were living in. I helped him to see the world not as cruel and crazy as he thought. And I helped show him its beauty. I told him I wanted to do what I could to make the world worthy of our children. That was a huge turning point in our individual lives but also in the life we were sharing.

And now we have these kids. We even brought them with us to the Kalahari Music Festival, where Johnny Clegg was headlining when we were living in Botswana. On our safaris, treks throughout Southern Africa, they heard Clegg with Juluka, Savuka and on his own - one of the handful of CD's we listened to over and again. Regardless, who would have known that "Asimbonanga" Clegg's tribute to Mandela would be our activist daughter's favorite and that our son, taking expeditionary studies, would/could be '...sitting on top of Kilimanjaro..." where he "can see a new tomorrow."

It's hard for me to choose just one of the songs that Clegg played last night. They meant so much to me as I made my way with this White American with an African Soul. And how my life would be so different if I had not met him, married him.

Maybe I would have embraced some other culture if I had married someone else. After all, I felt a kinship to the women I met when I went to Pakistan and Guatemala for work. Maybe I would have pursued my dream of being a newspaper journalist and become a global correspondent. I could have settled in Asia. But that didn't happen. I met Peter and that was that.

His love for Africa wasn't infectious. He didn't immerse me or the children in it but instead exposed us to her charms, like playing Johnny Clegg for us on our game drives and road trips on our way to the heart of the desert, to sleep under the stars, to see a forest of giraffe, be charged by elephant and awoken to the roar of a lion in camp.

And while we didn't always have a choice, we went willingly. Not only do our children embrace the adventures Peter has given them, I do too. When we were on our honeymoon through Europe, we went on a ghost walk in England. During the walk, there was a story of a mint where the janitor saw images of soldiers, hurt, dejected, weary. The troop walked toward him as he fixed something in the basement. The soldiers and their horses were quite visible from their shins up. After some research, it was determined this was a Roman legion who had lost and were pushed up to York. Anthropologists excavated the basement of the mint and found concrete evidence. That night, I had a dream so vivid, I awoke in fright. Peter leaned toward me to ask what was wrong, but I pushed him away. In my dream, I was a woman who had come up to one of the soldiers to offer a ladle of water. As the man took the ladle from my hand, I saw his face. He was Peter. Eventually, I did fall back asleep. It wouldn't be until the light of day that Peter would tell me that he had the very same dream. Many experiences have shown me that Peter and I were not only "meant-to-be" but have been for many lives.

After how easily I adapted to living with the San, we're convinced we were Bushmen at some stage of our beings. We have been together since the beginning of time.

Maybe that's why Johnny Clegg so easily stirs my soul. He has been a part of our lives from the beginning. And seeing Clegg up on stage, acknowledging that this might be his last tour, watching him with his son, Jesse, and seeing the fruits of his other son's labors in the videos accompanying the performance, really made last night's show most personal.

But back to answering my own question - "Dela" is my favorite song from last night's set...and quite frankly, the song my African heart sings and has sung for what seems like eternity.

"One day I looked up and there you were.
like a simple question looking for an answer.
Now I am the whale listening to some inner call,
swimming blindly to throw myself upon your shore.
...What if I don't find you when I have landed?
Will you leave me here to die on your shore stranded?
I've been waiting for you all my life, hoping for a miracle.
I've been waiting day and night, day and night."


http://www.johnnyclegg.com/tour.html

The Keys to My Heart

Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart.

Good thing FB reminded me of the post I'd written two years ago. How interesting that what stood out about our wedding was the fact that the limo never arrived to pick us up. I remember turning to my dad and saying, "What if this is a sign?" "What kind of sign?" he wanted to know. "What if I'm not supposed to marry him?"

On our honeymoon, you rented that motorcycle to get around Corfu. We tooled around and had a blast. That was my first time on a motorcycle. What a wild ride, I thought. Until you tried to out-run a truck on that windy dirt road and we wound up in a ditch. I got so banged up I could hardly walk and wondered if I had internal bleeding. We barely saw Athens because I was so hurt. And again I wondered what I was getting myself into?

Over the years, I've had issues with your driving. That time you made a sudden left from the right-hand lane in Hoboken. My life literally flashed before my eyes as a huge dump truck came within feet of crushing me. And that time I was 8 months pregnant with Markham and we drove up and down these unmarked roadways, bumping over logs and rock outcroppings looking for Tom's camp but never did find it? Or the times, the many, many times we ran out of gas, our car just suddenly died or we sank in mud well past the car's axles? And remember that trip going to one of our Cultural Survival sales when you got three speeding tickets in three different states?

But I do remember times when I should give you credit for your driving. Like your amazing parallel parking! And driving to the Neversink, down the former logging road, we barely fit, with one side of the car a cliff-face and the other a mountainside. Not a scratch on the car. And more recently, the hours of switchback roads you drove in-and-out of Mendocino. One stretch went 22 miles! Whew!

If we mapped the many trips we've taken, from Hoboken or Manhattan every weekend to our parents houses, back and forth to go fly-fishing to the Catskills or Pennsylvania, up and back to visit Macallan in Syracuse and now Markham in Plattsburgh, and your always too frigging long commute to work, no matter where we lived and what job you had, you've probably circled the globe several times over. And still I am anxious sitting shot-gun. I clutch the dashboard. I grab the handle. I slam my right foot onto my imaginary brakes. I scream, "Watch Out!" when only 10% of the time is there ever anything to be watchful of.

I don't know why. We've never been in a serious accident. We have never gotten hurt (except for our honeymoon in Greece in 1986). I'm not even really sure why I had to have "happy pills" for our long Botswana road trips. I slept during the stretches where you drove 120mph!

But it seems significant. It seems like that's symbolic of our marriage. You driving us. You are the reason we went places - to Florida, to Botswana, and here I was, just going for the ride.

But while that's how I remember it, that's not the case, is it? We've taken these 31 years together. Sometimes you're the driver, deciding not only where we're going but how fast we'll go. Sometimes, you're driving me to places I need to go. And sometimes, I've spurred you on to look for new fishing spots, hiking trails or new breweries to keep things from getting too stale and to fulfill both our need to explore.

We're at a frustrating and difficult time right now. At a time when we're essentially empty nesters but you still have to work, further exasperated when we have big unforeseen expenses, like the two major repairs on the cars. Just when we think we've got it all figured out, a budget we can live with and plans for the future, something goes wrong and sets us back.

We were coasting and then all of a sudden, there's not enough gas or road or the brakes have gone out! "What are we going to do?" Or we're coasting and we want to gain momentum. We're looking for a gas station to fill up or we found gas but the it's too expensive, "What to do?"

And sometimes, there isn't a "What to do?" as much as, "What do I do now? " or "What do I want to do?" coz you're bored or you're empty inside.

I've been questioning us lately. Not because there's something wrong, but more that there's nothing wrong. I make conversation. I prod. I poke. But maybe, I should just let you drive. I should trust that you'll get us there and you'll get us there safe and sound. Not a scratch on us.

Because I'm not just the passenger, going along for the ride. You aren't always the driver who knows where we're going. Sometimes, you're there just to get me to the destination I need. Sometimes, you take me on a wild and crazy ride.

That's what our love is. It's a journey we're taking together. I'm not sure where we'll wind up, but after 31 years, I should trust that no matter what, you'll be right by my side. You're not going anywhere, I know that now. You're not going anywhere ... unless it's with me.

On Being a Mom to Graduating Seniors

My kids are graduating - one from high school, the other from college. I can hardly believe it. Where did the time go? And where will my kids wind up?

It seems like only yesterday I was breastfeeding, potty training, reading to them, and watching them learn to read for themselves.

Over the years we set rules: Don't climb the stairs without holding our hand; Don't leave the perimeter of our farm; Tell me where you're going, when you get there, who you're with.

And learned from our mistakes: Don't cross the street without an adult; Don't leave him alone with matches; and Be sure to apologize to your kids after yelling at them over something minor because your editor set an ungodly deadline and you feel like a failure all the way around.

There were times when I caught myself saying, When is he going to learn to feed himself? I can't wait for you to drive. You can have that when you can pay for it yourself.

But now that they're so independent, I ache to make him dinner, to spend more than a few hours at a time with her, to sit on the couch and watch "A Knight's Tale" or "Princess Bride" from start to finish with each of us reciting our favorite line. "It's called a lance!" "As you wish."

Now, they're graduating. Moving up, moving on and our home will never be the same again. No loose Lego pieces to impale our feet, no more animals to care for (except for the ones we already have and the ones I can't help but bring home), no overpowering scent of hair or body products, and no boys splayed out on the floor of the kitchen, catching me up on the gossip at school, as I happily make them a snack.

Graduating for them is an exciting, scary, promising endeavor. As it should be for me, I keep telling myself. Because now, I don't HAVE to take care of them, I GET to care about them.

I, too, graduate - from nursing to nurturing. Sure, I wish they could have stayed a certain age longer. You know, like if they could have stayed five-years-old for three years? But alas, that can't be. So, I guess, I'll go and grow with them.

I'll take mending that broken heart over that busted knee. I'll dole out the cash for fast food over slaving over a hot stove. I guess I'll take the "Good Morning" text over having to get them up for school, any day.

Yup, when you look at it that way, we're all graduating. Taking that next step in our lives.

Because no matter how old they get, they'll still need their mother (and father). I'm so thankful that I get to see them grow up, grow older, and truly see how my 'momming' has paid off.

So here's to my graduating seniors! Go on. Go off. Go take your place in this world...I'll be watching,  cheering, and waiting for you to come "home".

And in our family, who knows where or what "home" will be, but as long as I am living, that home is me.

Birthday Lunches, Failed Get Togethers and Good Byes

Just around the new year, I start thinking about my birthday. I’ve had some pretty awful celebrations but I can’t remember one. Recalling recent years, my sister threw me an impromptu party at her home. I’ve celebrated in various cities, Hudson being one of my favorites. And several times now, my family has taken over Purple Yam where Chef Romy has made us special dishes based on my favorite foods!  

For a number of years, while I was working at Scholastic, I shared my birthday with a few co-workers. We were all born a few days and an undisclosed number of years apart. We never planned it. It was always a casual thing. “Hey, let’s go out for our birthdays,” Jackie would say. And off we went. 

Over the past few years, I hadn’t celebrated with my co-workers. I lost touch with one of them, although I can see she is doing well from the FB posts of friends we share. And while I hadn’t spoken, emailed, texted, or pm'd the other, I knew if I reached out, she’d be there. 

"Why don't you come out to Brooklyn?" "Let me know next time you come into the City." One time she and our former editorial director surprised me and stopped by my shop in Cold Spring. Just after we moved back from Botswana, a Scholastic reunion of sorts came together, bringing many of us from "the old days" to one of our favorite hang outs in the Village. "When can we do that again?" was a catch phrase one or more of us would utter half-heartedly on social media. There always seemed to be a better time, a next time..."Next time I'm downtown." "Next time I've got a sitter." "Not this time because I can't get away from the store, but definitely next time." I’m not sure when the last time was. Could it really have been 13 years? 

I'm sorry I took our time together for granted. I was overwhelmed when I learned of her death. I didn’t know the Cancer had come back. 

I didn’t know. 

But over the years, why didn’t I call her? Why didn’t I make an effort to go see her? Why? 

And now I’m facing another birthday and she just missed hers. We won't have that birthday lunch. We don't get to plan an alternate date. I don’t get to say, "Happy Birthday". And most importantly, I also didn't get to say "Good-Bye".