The closer I get to setting a 5:45 alarm and everything that goes along with sending kids to school again, the more short of breath I seem to become. I dread jumping back into the fray. The last two weeks have been lovely. In preparation for the fray, I was reading an article about how to deescalate and defuse situations when the routine and the busyness cause moments of stress and chaos. I was nodding inside my own head. How badly I need the reminder. I’m many things. But a deescalator is not something I’ve ever been labeled. I’m more of a…reactor. Some might say an OVERREACTOR. An ignitor. A catastrophizer. Whatever.

I almost can’t help myself. I’m way outnumbered. I’m old. I’m Type A. And I’m scared of chaos. Also I’m outnumbered. Did I already mention that? So the moment something begins, whether it’s a spat between children, an I-can’t-find-my-belt, an alarm that didn’t go off, a lunch that was forgotten, or wrong-side-of-the-bed tone of voice, I go into Smackdown Mode. I’m gonna squelch it. Fix it. Kill it. Stop it. Conquer it.

But I don’t. Because I stink at that. Mostly I just pump air at the flames and then shed silent tears as I watch those flames destroy everything I love.

The problem is, sometimes a thing can’t be fixed. Sometimes it doesn’t need to be. That’s what I struggle to remember. Maybe it’s an allergy attack that has to be lived with because there’s a big test 2nd period. That allergy attack can’t be fixed quickly. And neither can the emotions that often go along with it. But what would happen if I took a deep breath, let the kid spew a little venom about the gene pool he inherited and then tell him I love him, I’m going to pray for him all day, and it’s going to be ok. I wonder how it might go then. If only there were a way to find out.

Peace. Deescalation. Empathy. Stability. Huh.

I wanted to compile some information from other sources and write a how not to stress about stress kind of blog post. No one needs that more than I do. But I can’t put my heart into it because there are much bigger weights in the world than anything I’ve ever had to face. Things unfolding right now that just make back to school seem silly.

I had a mouth full of Qdoba at lunch today when I saw a friend’s facebook post that her niece had died following a lifelong battle with Loeys-Dietz syndrome. The worst part of that is that lifelong was only 9 years. Scout McCauley died last night following an aortic dissection that her body just couldn’t recover from. She was 9. And amazing. And beautiful. And poetic. And valiant. And very, very brave. Her family is also all of those things. They have faced grave circumstances for 9 years. But they faced them with Scout and because of Scout. Now they are walking an unimaginable road, without Scout. How do you do that? How does anyone do that? I really can’t wrap my head or heart around that one. Another friend posted a tribute to Scout with the following quote:

“I wanted you to see what real courage is… It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what.” Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird

So I can’t really make myself think about school uniforms and alarms tonight. Tonight I’m thinking about Scout. And I’m praying for Scout’s family. And I’m thinking about the definition of true courage. I’m in awe of people who possess it.

Tuesday is the day my kids go back to school. Much of the nation goes back tomorrow. If that’s your circumstance and if things blow up around you, take a deep breath, fix what you can, hug what you can’t, and even if you are licked before you begin, begin anyway and see it through no matter what.

Rest in Jesus, Scout. Thanks for showing us the way home.

If you’d like to donate to the McCauley family, you can do so here.

https://www.gofundme.com/the-mccauley-family?member=1441220&utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=fb_tco_campmgmtbnr_w

This morning, I woke up rather leisurely in a queen sized bed in a hotel with my daughter, her friend, and my friend. I knew what today was, but it still surprised me to open Facebook and see it there. Good Morning, Missy, today is Ann Dawson White’s Birthday. Let her know you are thinking of her.

Sigh.

Well, ok. I mean, it is her birthday. And she’s not here.

But it isn’t the first birthday we’ve done without her. And it isn’t the worst one, either. Her last one on Earth, almost a full year before she died, was the worst one for me.

On January 5, 2017, my mother was holed up in John Knox Village rehab, after a hospital stay next door. John Knox is probably a very nice place to live on the assisted side. But the rehab side is a dump. So I was already a little depressed that my mom had to be in that place. The floors and walls had a gray cast to them, like the color of germs. People lined the narrow hallway who seemed to be clinging to life in the harshest of ways. She shared a room with somebody in worse shape than she was.

My mom was in that place for well over a week. She was in there on her 74th birthday. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that she didn’t care. She didn’t care where she was. And she didn’t care that it was her birthday.

I came as early that day as I could get there. When I arrived, she looked at me slowly and spoke in response to me.

“Happy Birthday, Mom,” I said, sitting down on the edge of a chair near her bed. She didn’t smile or say thank you, so I kept talking. “You’ve been getting a ton of birthday messages on Facebook. You want me to read you some?”

“Yes,” she answered flatly. So I began.

“Happy Birthday, Ann! We have shared many birthdays as special friends. May the trend continue!”

“Happy, happy birthday, dear, sweet Ann! I hope you are feeling better quickly! Miss you.”

“Happy Birthday, dreadnaught friend!”

“Happy Birthday to a very sweet lady! I hope you have a wonderful day!”

“Happy, happy birthday to an amazing woman and such an inspiration to myself and my boys!”

I stopped every now and then and looked at her. She was looking off to the right, toward the curtain barrier between her bed and her neighbor’s. Was she listening? Could she hear me? She wasn’t digesting the messages. There were 80 of them.

“Mom, you got 80 messages for your birthday,” I said.

I wanted her to care. I needed her to still care. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. That was the hardest birthday for me. The following year, on what would have been her 75th, I was able to rejoice that her spirit was no longer trapped in the prison of her very sick mind and body. The same way I can rejoice today.

The last birthday I remember really celebrating was her 70th. 2013. The entire family came out to our farmhouse and ate with us around the dining room table. Mom wasn’t totally herself, as we’d already begun to notice her slipping bit by small bit. But she was mostly herself. Smiling. Laughing at the right moments. Poking fun at herself. We had made a pretty big deal out of her because it was a milestone birthday. When she walked out my front door that night to go home, I knew she was happy. I knew she was properly loved. And I knew that she knew it too.

Facebook told me to let her know I was thinking of her today. Of course I am. I’m thinking of her laughter, which almost always caused a total face collapse. I’m thinking of her fierceness and how many times she went to bat for me. I’m thinking of her pride in me… afro and bad outfits me… buck tooth me… tube socks and canvas sneakers me. And I’m thinking that she spent 74 birthdays getting herself ready to stand in front of God, and helping me get ready, too. There is no question that I’m thinking of her. Of the her she was before disease. The real her.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I’m thinking of you. And I didn’t need Facebook to tell me that. Silly Facebook.

You know what’s a real sleep ruiner? 32 ounces of water imbibed at 10:30. I needed the water. But then I got to rethink that decision every hour for the rest of the night.

So I’ve been thinking about that whole discipline thing as it relates to the changes I’ve wanted to make for about 10 years now. Since Jenna. Oh, Jenna.

I figured out that, for me, the key is discipline. And the key to discipline is controlled and habitual. And the keys to controlled and habitual are–some other stuff.

I really don’t want to go all self-helpy, because I’m the farthest thing from a life coach and we’ve already established that it’s been more than a decade since I completed a New Year’s Resolution. I’m not qualified. You shouldn’t listen to me. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep talking. Because I’m thinking it onto paper. If you keep reading, that’s your choice. Your time.

I’m going to split my goals into the following bite-sized pieces:

1. I’m setting attainable goals for me, for now. I’m not going to set a goal of running a 10k. I dropped out of a 5k in November. Gretchen Rubin tells me to “lower the bar.” Be realistic. Don’t kill the goal before it even gets going good. Voltaire said, “Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.”
2. I’m setting measurable goals. How else can I know if I’ve met them? Saying I want to lose weight is worthless unless I can identify how much weight, per week, and by what method. Saying I wanted to write more didn’t work, until I decided that meant I would write Monday-Friday and post a blog per day. So far so good on that one.
3. I’m making daily deposits into many different accounts. One load of laundry a day. 20 minutes of reading my Bible a day. 20 minutes of exercise a day. A blog post per day. No more Smarties (taking a moment to let my eyes fill with sugar-free tears…) on any day.
4. I’m cutting what doesn’t fit (That originally came out ‘I’m cutting Wyatt Durant Fur’ on my phone). Currently the biggest time sucker I can cut completely is TV. I mean, I watch ALL the Hallmark Christmas movies and we all know if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen 24 others with an identical formula. There’s 48 hours I could get back right there. After Hallmark comes reading fiction. But let’s not talk crazy…

Controlled and Habitual needed some detail. I’ve got a few things in place. It’s attainable. It’s measurable. The rest is up to me.

I can only hope the rewards will be greater than the withdrawal I’ll be feeling when my Smarties and the Hallmark winter movies start singing their siren song, softly and sweetly in a strain only a hearing aid can hear…

Everyone loves a clean slate.

A new year.

A brand new white board. A fresh sheet of paper. An empty journal soon to be filled with the brilliant ideas in your head. A new workout program. Resolutions.

New. Fresh. Clean. Shiny.

But then.

Not new things happen.

Not fresh things show up.

The unclean invites itself.

You misspell a word on page 2 of the journal. In INK.

You skip two days of the new workout because your thighs were screaming horrible things at you. But they scream more and louder when you go back.

You can see the last two weeks of white board markings and can’t get that shiny new finish back no matter how much spray you use.

It’s old now.

Spoiled.

Ruined.

Eh. It’s easier to quit than fail.

Pretend you never started.

I’ve done that. Been doing that for years, actually.

I’ve tried picking a word of the year. 2016 was “intentional.” I intentionally did not make it to February. 2017 was “change.” I wrote down in a journal, “Nothing changes if nothing changes.” Wow. Deep. And nothing changed. Because nothing changed. 2018 was the hardest year of my life, with more conflict and change than I’ve ever experienced. As much as I didn’t work toward a New Year’s resolution or set specific goals this year, I did work and my regrets are fewer than usual. The hard stuff kept me on my knees, which is the safest and best place I could be.

But something hit me the day after Thanksgiving just a few short weeks ago. In the unlikely and uninspiring setting of a laundry room, I leaned over a dryer and read a Sean Dietrich blog post (www.seanofthesouth.com) from start to finish. It made me cry. It was simple, poignant, and powerful. The next day, I read another. And the day after that, another. I loved reading. He kept writing. That’s when it occurred to me that he writes every day. New material. From January 2018 until that moment in November, I had written 3 times. I wanted to write. I needed to write. But I wasn’t writing.

Inspired by the simple and consistent words of a man I’ve never met, I decided that if he could, so could I. At least on a Monday-Friday basis. Monday-Friday means 5 posts a week. That’s a specific goal that is 1,000,000 times more than I’ve been writing. How would I make that happen? What magic could I tap into to pull it off?

That’s when it hit me. Magic isn’t how things happen. Inspiration isn’t the source of great ideas and fancy words. It’s time. It’s effort. It’s determination.

It’s DISCIPLINE. Training myself to do something in a controlled and habitual way. (Thanks, internet.) Controlled and habitual. Ok then. I can develop the discipline to write daily. To do anything daily.

And out popped the word for 2019: discipline. In 2016, I tried to be intentional without any discipline. In 2017, I tried to change without applying discipline. In 2019, I’m going to develop discipline. To read. To write. To get healthy. To study. To whatever. Put in the time and the energy every day for whatever I’m working toward. 20 minutes here. An hour there. It’s a focus not so much on the outcome as it is on the process. For any goal I set, there has to be a controlled and habitual in place to accomplish it. In order to get something done, I must do. Well, then.

It is the simplest of all plans. So simple it’s almost guaranteed to fail. But let’s not talk about failure. That’s so negative.

So pessimistic.

So unnecessary.

So February.

Happy 2019, friends.

I love New York City. I have never loved a city more. I grew up in Tallahassee and have a deep love for its rolling hills and canopied oaks and its sweet southern people. But given the choice, I’d move to New York. Tomorrow. I wouldn’t leave my family, obviously. And I wouldn’t do it against the wishes of those important to me. But a girl can dream. And my dream is to live in New York.

I grew up in the aisles of public libraries. And in those aisles, I once put my hands on a Madeleine L’Engle book. After that first one, I put my hands on all of her books. I’ve never read another author that punched my gut more, struck more chords, or created more relatable characters. She was the voice of my dreams. The words of my unfolding childhood. The Small Rain. Camilla. A Wrinkle in Time. The Moon By Night.

As I fly home from NYC, I have Becoming Madeleine in my lap. It is her story, written by her granddaughters. Her story unfolds like the dream I once had for myself. But sometimes goals and dreams don’t line up. I never want to miss my life for my dreams. I can’t risk looking away from what’s been entrusted to me–and from the One who entrusted–to gaze at the what-ifs. Maybe even the what-shouldn’t-bes. Dreams can relocate. Dreams can change. Dreams can be deferred. Life can’t. If I get to the end of my life and never get a single page published but my kids are gathered around me, I have succeeded exponentially. I would have no regrets. On the other hand, if I get to the end surrounded by a career but having missed the point of the beautiful people, my regret would be the final chapter, likely read by nobody special.

For now, I’ll continue walking the lighted path in front of me, reading anything L’Engle, satisfied that I managed to create in 4 young people a love and respect for the colors and energy of New York City on a trip I will never forget. For now, that is dream enough and far more than I deserve.

But if fortune plays a different hand someday and I up and disappear, you can find me on a rainy day in Times Square. I’ll be the one looking a little confused and carrying a cheap umbrella.

“The best thing one can do when it’s raining is to let it rain.”
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I am sitting in the airport, delayed because the sky has settled into the ground like thick gauze. There’s zero visibility. It could be 3 p.m. It could be midnight. Nobody would know the difference. I’m fine to wait until someone can see something. I do hope I get home to my dog tonight.

We arranged our last few itinerary wishes around the forecast. Our forethought in doing so still wasn’t enough. You can’t know how hard the rain will be. You can’t know how many other people you’ll be dodging as you walk through it. And you can’t know how bad a $6.99 umbrella from Duane Read (Walgreens) will be.

Or can you?

I had some time to kill last night while four of my people went into Ripley’s Believe it or Not. I never go into a Ripley’s because I am in the Or Not category and I figure if I’m going to make fun of every exhibit, I can do that outside for free. So I did. I had a duplicate stocking stuffer to return with a receipt to Duane Read. I figured I’d just get on ahead of the forecast and buy my family some umbrellas for today.

After returning the items I had bought and not used in the kids’ stockings, I slapped 6 emergency ponchos and 6 generic black Duane Read umbrellas up on the counter. The man checking me out had long blue hair and looked like he used to be in Genesis. He stopped the process and looked at me.

“Is it raining right now?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. “But I saw that it was supposed to start by 3 a.m. and we have a lot on the schedule tomorrow, so I thought I would buy the umbrellas now.”

“Oh, ok,” he replied. “Just asking. Because we usually only sell this umbrella when it is raining right then.”

Hmm. I’m not sure I like your tone, sir.

“I only need the umbrella for one day,” I said. “We’ll trash it when we’re done. You think it’s got a day in it?”

“Hopefully,” he said. He had begun ringing me up. Even buying the worst umbrellas I could find, with emergency ponchos, I still rang up to $63.10. I wasn’t going to go higher in quality. That meant going higher in price.

I dropped those umbrellas into a brand new Pusheen backpack and walked across the street to Starbucks where I ordered myself a nice hot cocoa with an abundance of whipped cream. There was something about that whole experience that made me feel both very grown up and very childish. The backpack didn’t help my case. Walking to Bryant Park alone, did.

When I awakened this morning, I looked out at the Empire State building and it was lost in the drizzle and the clouds. A 90 story building that had boasted the colors of Christmas throughout our stay was no match for today’s gloom. We packed up and got out early, because our plan was to visit the 9-11 memorial and museum. A few other people made that same plan. So many that we changed our plan to stomping in disgust and getting back on the subway. Well, that’s not exactly how it went, but I personally was bitterly disappointed to skip that. We stood in the rain at the footprint of both the fallen towers and observed the memorial. Then we gave up on the museum.

We wandered the rest of the morning in a rainy Times Square and ate lunch in La Havana. The rain fell cold around us, but we had our $6.99 umbrellas, so we stayed not dry at all. One of the umbrellas only deployed by shaking it furiously, which becomes awkward in a crowd. Brady’s umbrella deployed forcefully at random, which at one point almost caused him a concussion. None of us asked him why he had it pointed at his own head, but it would have been a fair question to ask. The fact that none of us asked probably is its own answer. Jenna’s umbrella turned inside out three different times when the wind hit her wrong. And mine literally separated into two pieces. Other than that, I highly recommend the Duane Read $6.99 generic black umbrella.

The wet cold settled into us until we made it back to our hotel to gather our belongings. Our feet were soaked. Our clothes needed some time with a hotel hair dryer. But the colors. The colors. The colors in Times Square laid like mosaics in the wet streets. It was far more vivid than the dry days we walked it. Sometimes there are gifts in the rain. And colors in the rainy streets.

And sometimes the best thing one can do when it rains is to let it rain.

But there’s also something to be said for a quality umbrella.

After the night we had, I think I should probably stick to bullet points this morning. I’m also plunking this out on my phone, and we all know how phone typing goes for me.

Last night around 11:30, when I was threatening bodily harm already to the girls who wouldn’t stop flapping their gums, Jenna says, “What’s that creepy noise?” My answer was, “Go to sleep or the creepy noise will be the spanking you’re getting.” Oh, who am I kidding? She is who she is because she needed spanking and I just couldn’t do it.

Anyway, I’m good at the threats.

But, as I lay there with my good ear against a pillow and my bad ear to the air, I heard a noise too. A noise like dripping. A dripping like Niagara Falls. So I got up to check the bathroom, thinking our shower was dripping and discovered that the hotel room directly above us was raining right into our room. I grabbed the phone to call downstairs and Tim was at the door before I could even change clothes. Don’t worry. It’s too cold here to be indecent.

Tim didn’t have much to offer. No maintenance or mechanics were on duty and there were no rooms like ours available. I said good night to Tim and used every towel in the place to soak up the water and prayer to stop the water.

Then we tried all over again to get the talkers to shut up. Threaten and repeat.

This morning, I checked the situation and the water was no worse. I hope they fix it upstairs because I don’t want to leave this room.

Since sleep was abbreviated, I’ll keep the post abbreviated also.

Magical Moments:

• After wandering a rather interesting neighborhood looking for the 2nd Street Subway station, we asked a man if he could tell us where it was. That man answered as kindly and articulately as any person I’ve ever talked to in my life. “Well, yes sir. It’s just right across this street, attached to the corner of the Whole Foods.” I was convinced he was Columbia University educated. Todd and Brady said he was homeless. Shows what they know.
• Walking 34th Street with Todd and Brady at night and introducing Brady to Macy’s.
• STOMP. What a great show they put on, in a theater they own in the aforementioned interesting neighborhood.
• Riding the subway. The people watching is amazing. Not walking 30 blocks is a magic all its own.
• The view from the 86th floor of the Empire State building.

The Black Magical Moments:

• The 2nd Street Subway Station. Once we finally found it, we knew why it was hard to find. It’s because you shouldn’t find it. It shouldn’t be found.
• Walking 34th Street with the girls. Let’s just leave it at this. I took them back to the hotel to stay with Andrew.
• Brady got accosted by a dude selling airheads. “Don’t be scared, boy,” he said. We grabbed our son from the evil clutches and kept walking. We’re not scared, fella. WE JUST DON’T WANT NO STINKING AIRHEADS!
• Lucy cannot pass a tour/bus company employee without accepting a pamphlet. “Don’t take any pamphlets” has become a family catchphrase.
• Jenna is an easy target for people dressed up like Elmo and the Grinch. They grab her for a picture and before we know it, she’s posed between two strangers wanting our money. We. Don’t.want.the.airheads.people.
• The line to the view from the 86th floor of the Empire State building.

There are a lot of people visiting New York City right now who apparently had the same idea we did.

They should have stayed home.

Happy Holidays. Wishing you the good kind of magic.

Everyone knows. Christmas ends 6 minutes after it officially begins. It ends faster than the Thanksgiving meal. That’s why I try to get my lights and decorations up at a ridiculous rate. When the magic is over, it’s over.

It was over at our house by 3 p.m. on Chrismas day. Sometimes we could cool my mother’s Jets for another 18 hours, which meant that our tree wasn’t at the curb until 8 a.m. December 26. But that was all we could hope for unless she had plans.

We consoled ourselves with the toys. Avert your eyes away from the dead tree and ride that big wheel, Missy.

This year was tough all around. For everyone, not just for me. It was a year of character testing and refining and pain and growth and ultimately, joy. There are things you cannot go around. You have to go through. For this round, I think we are through the hardest stuff. We are looking back on it with a Yeesh emoji face, feeling relieved to still be on our feet. Feeling wiser, but only in the areas where we were tested. We’ll mess up again in a whole new category.

The magic of the season had taken a hiatus from the people and places we normally found it. So we took a hiatus, too. And we have found it in new places and activities. And though it is past 8 a.m. on December 26, I hope to prolong the magic for a couple more days.

This year’s magic:

• Wandering the Time Square Walgreens for stocking stuffers on Christmas Eve while trying to avoid the girls who were in the store with me.
• Matching hats and scarves that don’t make you sweat when you wear them. In fact, you’ll die if you don’t.
• The New York public library. The Lions out front are wearing wreathes. This is my favorite building in the city.
• The red and green light show put on by the empire State building.
• Walking everywhere.
• Talking the girls into not watching a real TV show on Christmas Eve and day. Instead, we watched 12 hours of the Yule Log on Hallmark, with classic music and baby animals.
• Ice skating in view of the Rockefeller tree.
• Wandering 5th Ave.
• Listening to my kids snore.

There have been some unmagical things as well. Some might call these the dark arts. Black magic. But I’ll save those for another post, when I’m slightly more irritated with children. One of them has me locked out of the bathroom right now so I’m working on a post in my head.

Happy Holidays from me and my red hat. May your holiday cause you to puff out your chest even if you got nothing to show for anything. That is my wish for the world.