According to Trish

Shh. It’s early. I have sneaked (snuck?) downstairs to have a little rendezvous with you before the kidsters are awake. I inadvertently made coffee the consistency of pancake syrup but I’m just going to suck down that nasty bidness anyway so my brain can wake up. And then you and I can have our special time together.

Because I have missed you.

Let me just get my excuses for not writing out of the way so we can move on to more interesting things: moving, doubling my job, kids underfoot, little bit o’ family travel and some grownup-style socializing here and there (momma must get out, after all) have all teamed up and roundly kicked my roundly ass. As a result, my body is no longer accepting the synthetic sleep serum that I’ve been offering it (caffeine) and is instead insisting on the real deal. But sleep is like organic fruit — I know why it’s better for me but it’s so darn expensive sometimes.

It’s before 5:30 AM as a I write this. I’ve become quite fond of this time of day over the last 7 years since I’ve become a mother — not because I love getting up early but because the wee AM hours are often the only time I can grab to work or to write. And I’d like to make a little report to those of you who aren’t up at this time: It’s getting pretty sweet out there right now. That’s because it’s still dark. I love the summertime as much as anyone but the delicate slide into fall gets me every year. It’s so impossibly gentle yet so powerful, like the small of a woman’s back. I just want to grab a seat on a hillside somewhere and not get up until it’s November.

So enough of that. I know that’s not why you come here. You want to find out what’s going on in the life of single-momma Trish — and I suspect that you don’t want to hear about the dishes that need done or how fast the kids are growing. You want the good stuff. You want to know if I’ve gotten over that shy thing yet (nope — but working on it), if I’ve started hiking my boobs up to my chin in order to attract a little attention from the male-creatures in the tribe (not quite to my chin) and if I’ve managed to entice one of those man beasts to press his lips delicately or not-so-delicately against mine (not telling, bitches).

And it makes me laugh that you all want to know about that. But I get it. Because while so many of you have expressed your concern, your sympathy and your support during this time, you’ve also expressed another thing: jealousy.

Not that anyone wants to get divorced. But I think the prospect of a little freedom is tantalizing to a lot of you married types. The thought of getting “out there” again, knowing all that you know now … oh, the things you’d do.

And there’s another interesting thing going on with all of you since I dropped the D-word. Let me explain: When I was in college, I had a delightful friend who couldn’t keep it in her pants. (Yo girl! Holla!)  This was no secret, first of all because we lived in a dorm and second of all because she was quite generous in sharing tales of exactly who was or was not circumcised. And she was/is a screamingly hilarious chick. (No, I’m not talking about myself.) And, as often happens on co-ed college campuses in our great nation, there was a lot sex going on — much of it of the guilty variety. You know, girls sleeping with people they later regretted or sleeping with guys to land a boyfriend (which rarely works), people neglecting to use proper protection, classmates adding new and exciting levels of kink to their sexual dance cards … you get the idea. As it became known that my hilarious friend was pretty open about her exploits, people started talking to her about theirs. I guess it was like no matter what you (I mean they) had done, you could go confess to so-and-so because she always had a story that would top yours. There was that reassurance of thinking that what you’d done wasn’t so very bad after all.

Since I’ve come clean about the divorce, I sort of feel like that girl in that I’ve slept with everyone in my dorm (kidding). But now that I’m out there with the failed marriage thing, and been open to certain point, I find that people want to tell me their stories about their marriage woes. And I want to hear them. Not because I get off on hearing about people’s problems, but because I’m interested and I care. (Because I looooves you!)

I also suspect that people want to tell me about their marriages as a point of comparison. They want to know if they’re having normal marriage trouble or if they’re having big, scary trouble that will eventually be their undoing. It’s like talking to a cancer patient who started out only having flu symptoms — and maybe you’ve been having flu symptoms, too. You want to know how to tell the difference  between a minor bug and a potentially fatal condition and you’re wondering if the cancer patient has any insight.

Now let me pause right here to say that if you have shared your story with me, please know that it is safely tucked inside my head and I have no intention of hauling it out for the world to see. If you read something here that sounds like you, please know that someone else  or several someone elses have told me similar stories. Because many of the stories I’ve heard are strikingly similar.

The fact is, marriage can be a lonely place. Even if you’re married to your best friend. Even if you wouldn’t change partners for the world. Even if you’re still attracted to the person on the other end of that ball and chain. Why is that? Is it because we stand there in front of the whole world and go, “See this plate of spaghetti? I love it. I love spaghetti and this plate of spaghetti in particular is so intricately delicious that I pledge, for the rest of my life, that this is the only food I will ever eat again! Come visit me in 50 years and I’ll be sitting right here, still chowing on this exact plate of spaghetti! When I’m on my death bed and they ask me what I want for my last meal, I’ll say it loud and proud, ‘Bring me my spaghetti!’”

But come on. It’s a tall order. That’s not saying that I don’t believe in marriage, because I think there can be a lot of fantastic things going on in the good ones. But I’m saying it’s really easy to get tired of doing the mental work to relate to that spaghetti anymore. And eventually it becomes easier to just skip some meals rather than go back to that same plate of food.

OK, I think my little metaphor is falling apart here. Let’s speak plainly, shall we? Here are the things that I’m hearing over and over:

1. My spouse doesn’t understand what I’m going through.

2. We’re not having sex.

Right now I’m imagining a bunch of you going, “Wha? You mean we’re not the only ones?” Nope. There’s a whole subculture going on here, people. I have heard this A LOT.

I wish that I could trot out some great advice for all of you celibate, lonely married people at this moment but honestly, I’m too busy trying to get laid. (Another joke.)

However, since I’m a chick I can offer just a wee bit of insight to the dudes out there. This probably won’t help any of you, but what the hell?

If you’re in the land of supposed domestic bliss, and especially if you have children, you need to help the fuck out. (Said with love. Lots of love.) I think some of you are great at this. I have seen this in action. But I’m talking this kind of help: Send your woman off for the day (or several days). Hold down the fort. Don’t be a whiney baby about it. Let her go off by herself or with some girlfriends and let her remember who she is. Because the mental load of motherhood is much more formidable than the list of tasks on her to-do list. Yeah, she wants to sit down and take a break, but she also wants to stop thinking about what everyone else needs and just think about herself for a bit. Let her remember that she’s funny and interesting and worthwhile for a bunch of reasons that have nothing to do with getting someone’s breakfast. Motherhood can be phenomenal in a million ways. But it can also be a big, fat identity crisis. When roughly 99.2% of your day belongs to the care and upkeep of other people, it’s pretty easy to not feel so sexy. Having the expectation of 0% privacy throughout the day doesn’t help, either. It’s hard to take the time to conduct all of that personal groundskeeping that women require when you have short little people peeping around the shower curtain.

On the reverse side, ladies, you need to take the time if he’s offering it. Go. Don’t look back. If he’s not offering it, comandeer it. Explain why you need it (which he may or may not get — doesn’t matter) but then GO.

And obviously, men want more sex. And if they’re getting plenty, chances are that they still probably want more. And then even more. I’m just guessing about this …

Sooo … the question is, how do we get this all humming along so that everyone is happy? I read something a while ago by John Gray (the Mars/Venus guy) that relationships are cyclical, in that woman need romance and intimacy in order to feel sexual and men need sex in order to feel intimate and romantic. The thing is that someone has to get this cycle started. So if you’re reading this, I challenge you to be the one. Consider it your homework assignment. BUT …. but, but, but … don’t expect an overnight miracle here. You have to work this program for a while, I think, before the cycle starts running on its own. I also just recently heard something from a wise person who said, “You wouldn’t go to the gym once and then go, ‘Well, nothing happened so I guess it didn’t work.’” Put in the time. (And yes, to answer the obvious question, I applied all of this to my own marriage. I’m not saying this system fixes everything but it’s an important starting point.)

Obviously, I’m no expert at any of this. However, I have a friend who I think is a good case study. She is the most contented person I know, in her life and in her marriage. Her husband really shares the load at home (they both work). They each let the other get away, guilt-free, pretty often. They’re getting busy a couple times a week — not always like rock stars, but still, there’s a frequency. I think they have some pretty spectacular fights here and there but they’re airing things out. Another key: I suspect that she feels pretty sexy — as she should because she’s a hot momma. So there’s something to be said for taking care of yourself (although between you and me, I doubt the bitch has ever had to work very hard on it). But even if you don’t have a rockin’ bod, it’s worth taking the time (yes, I understand time is hard to come by) to wear clothes that make you feel pretty and to go out get a good haircut, etc. Those things help. Because ultimately, neglecting yourself is neglecting your relationship. Ladies, speak up about this.  Spell it out. Inform your man-beast that it takes work to look hot and sexy and to FEEL hot and sexy so you’ll be motivated to get him all hot and sexy.

And it’s now 9:00 in the morning and I’ve been writing all of this while getting breakfast for the munchkins and changing diapers and sitting in a lawn chair in the basement so I can keep an eye on them while they’re playing and now sitting on the sticky deck. If they only knew what their momma was up to. Enjoy this now, peeps. Someday they’ll be old enough to have Internet access and then I’m going to have to start writing about knitting patterns and how to make a great meatloaf.

Reminder: Do your homework. Report back.

It’s my last night in the house. The kids are in bed. It’s really, really quiet.

I’m sitting at the high kitchen table, where I always seem to end up working even though I have a desk in the dining room. There are a lot of boxes around but there’s still some packing to do — mostly random piles of clutter that will take some tedious going-through. I’m think I’m just going to swipe them into a couple of boxes and sort them out on the other end. Because the time for sorting and organizing is over.

Now is the time to mark the moment. An end. A beginning. A transition that is occurring right now as I write this.

The kids spent the day with my sister (THANK YOU, TREAS!) while my mom helped me pack (THANK YOU, MOM!). I picked the munchkins up and as we were all getting out of the car and I was digging out my keys, it struck me that this was the last time I was going to unlock the front door as a resident of this house. And it didn’t bring me to tears, although plenty of other things have. I felt resignation. ”Yeah. There was going to be a last time. It’s now.” Megan whined that she was hungry and Benjamin chattered as I carried him and they had no idea that something significant was occurring.

My normal impulse is to turn things over and really try to get at the meat of what’s going on. But over the past few months I’ve had to learn to power down a bit just so I could do what needed to be done: details, logistics, tasks. They can be a nice distraction.

In my power-down mode, I don’t have a lot of insight into tonight. I don’t really have a lot to say. I just want to note The Moment. I want to nod my head and say, ”I don’t quite understand you, Moment, but I know that you are important.” We don’t always know when the Big Moments are happening, so I might as well acknowledge one when I know it’s here.

If I want to address anyone, I guess that would be my house. I want to tell it that while I’m leaving it, I still have warm feelings for it in my heart. I’m comforted that my children will be able to come back here to a familiar place when they are away from me. I want to thank the house for being good to me. I want to part as friends.

I wonder if growing up in a military family is paying off right now? Moving must’ve gotten into my DNA along the line somewhere because it all feels pretty normal to pack up and start over.

Start over. Not totally but some. I realized today that as long as my kidsters are with me, I really have nothing to complain about. (But don’t hold me to that. Sometimes I find complaining to be entertaining. No, really.)

That’s all for now, blogmuffins. Signing off from this location. Next time I write to you all, I imagine that I’ll be at my desk, which will be tucked into the corner near the stairs, one of my favorite pictures hanging where I can see it. There will be spaghetti sauce on the stove (a house isn’t a home until you’ve made spaghetti sauce there) and the kids will be wrestling their way across the couch, laughing and ignoring SpongeBob on the TV as they burn off their evening crazies. I’ll be trying to squeeze in a little writing before dinner while they’re not paying attention. I won’t finish until after they’re in bed and the house is quiet. Really quiet like it is now.

And instead of boxes to fill there will be boxes to empty.

Nighty night, campers. See you on the other side.

I never thought that I would be the person who was having a spat with her neighbor. But here we are, in a veritable turf war over dandelions.

I posted on facebook the other week that I was committing surbuban heresy by not using chemical dandelion killers on my lawn. My immediate neighbor — let’s call her “Fern” – has let me know on several occasions over the years that she hates dandelions worse than she hates Republicans and that if she sees one (a dandelion, not a Republican) she has to immediately rip it out of the ground and flog it as if she were Dick Cheney and the cursed weed was a Gitmo detainee (or something like that). After a while I got the feeling that her general outrage might just be a thinly veiled plea for a specific action on my part.

We have done the chemical treatment once or twice over the years but I try to avoid it when I can. I’m no hippie (despite the presence of a Phish CD in my hybrid vehicle — OK, two Phish CDs…) and yes, I do shave my underarms and attend to various other forms of personal groundskeeping. But I’m not a huge fan of the Suburban Steroid Lawn. Really, to me, it’s just grass. You walk on it. Animals crap on it. It’s not a carpet and I find it silly to treat it like one. Also, I have a toddler in my house. Toddlers spent 90% of their waking time on the floor. Chemicals on the lawn get tracked into the house and all over the actual carpets and floors — where my darling Little B is picking up every teensy little thing and taste testing it. Not to mention, the runoff from all the chemicals is very bad for local water sources and everyone on our street has private wells. So the way I see it, I’d rather deal with some dandelions than deal with spreading poison all over my entire lawn. (I will admit to using occasional targeted weed killers like Round Up — I just hate the idea of covering the better part of a half acre with the stuff.)

However, I know people get nuts about their yards. And after a certain age in particular, people get absolutely obsessed about their yards. I’ve seen “the change” happen to people I know…  And I would like to tell you all now that if I ever get that crazy about my grass that I would like you to take me to an art movie house and duct tape me into a seat because I will clearly need some reprogramming. It’s one thing to get some sort of peace and joy out of gardening. It’s entirely another to patrol your grass for weeds as if you were a Minuteman doing border patrol.

But even I had to admit that this year the dandelions were getting a bit much. I knew that we were probably ticking off the neighbors, which I didn’t want to do. So we bit the bullet. I nagged the husband to go outside and do the dirty deed. Our front yard is now one unbroken stretch of green.

Then there’s the back yard. Last year we removed an old above-ground pool that we inherited from the former owners. Problem is, when you remove an above-ground pool, what you’re left with is an enormous round depression in your yard that looks like a meteorite may have once landed there. And our landing sight is full of sand and rock, which is on top of a membrane that I can’t seem to dig out. Oh yeah, and there are weeds. Lots of ’em.

We let the big mess just sit last year because our financial situation was changing and we didn’t want to put out the money to pay contractors. But Tom and I both agree that it’s an eyesore and we have already starting getting estimates to get it done this year. But in the meantime, the dandelions are having a dandy time in there.

Then one day this week I returned home from picking up my daughter at school and my husband says, “You’re going to love this. Right after you left today, Fern came over and started pulling dandelions in the backyard. She left just a few minutes ago.”

Now Fern and I have always been friendly. She had keys to our house. She let our dog out a bunch of times when we were away. She once drove me to the doctor’s office when I was having strange pregnancy-related symptoms. But I have felt the tide turning in the past few years — ever since I told her that I was voting for Obama in the primaries and not Clinton. Seriously.

Now it’s important to know that this woman is home all day every day. She spends a LOT of time walking around her yard, talking on her cordless phone and smoking. So I guess she has a lot of time to look things over.

I began noticing little comments here and there after Benjamin was born. She emailed me to water our grass seed after we had some work done — I was uncertain whether to be amused or annoyed (I decided to be grateful because I honestly had forgotten). Several times she complained about leaves in her yard (that we both knew had blown over from our house) and talked about how some pine cones from her one tree fall on the other neighbor’s property and that she feels bad about it and has to go over and pick them all up.

I knew what she was getting at. But I have two small kids, a big commute every day, a job and a husband with a very hectic work schedule. And even if I didn’t, I still don’t care enough to spend time patroling her yard for foliage that might have blown over from ours.

But I couldn’t blow off the Weeding Incident. So I emailed her. I tried to be dispassionate about it and just state the facts. This is what I said:

Dear Fern,

Please do not weed our yard. I know that dandelions bother you and because of that, we treated the grass with dandelion-killing chemicals last week. I personally do not like to use chemicals unless I have to, but we felt that we should do it because we do not want to upset the rest of the neighbors.

As for the site where the pool was, we realize that it is an eyesore. There is a thick membrane underneath the sand and rock and we have decided that we want to bring someone in with heavy equipment to remove and re-grade the site. To do it ourselves would take forever and Tom’s work schedule is extremely hectic. We could not afford to have someone do it last year, as it was the first year that we didn’t have the income from Tom’s day job. We have already asked our lawn guy to give us an estimate on what he would charge to take care of it this year.

If you have concerns about our yard, please feel free to talk to us about them.

Trish

Within the hour, she approached Tom outside and returned our house key. Then I got an email which I won’t reproduce here because I don’t think it’s fair to post something she intended as a personal correspondence. But the jist of it was that she was just making a neighborly gesture but if she had known that I was so touchy she wouldn’t have. She gave me a big explanation of how dandelions are spread. She said she didn’t think much about the former pool site in our back yard, but now that I mentioned it, it probably was a big breeding ground for mosquitoes but, oh well, it’s been that way for years. And also, she will never step foot on our property again.

I replied that I had no intention of turning this into a turf war, that I just wanted to let her know how I felt. I mentioned that we’d always been neighborly and I hoped that that could continue. And I pointed out that the pool had been that way for less than a year (which made the email feel a little less magnanimous, but that one pissed me off).

So at this point… whatever. I have bigger fish to fry than getting into a pissing match over this. If she’s going to sit in her home and feel hostile toward me, so be it. But I have to admit, I was outside with the kids yesterday wondering if she was inside her house shooting daggers at me. Maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t. I honestly hope that she has something better to do.

And while I try to act like I’m above all of this, I will admit that the big joke in my house right now is, “Did you feed the dog? No? OK, don’t worry about it, I’m sure Fern will be over to do it later…”

But I’m me. And for me nothing is ever about only what it’s about. It’s all gotta go big. So my thoughts on this one are along these lines: In trying to be a good neighbor, a good citizen of the world, a good spouse, a good mother, a good sister, a good daughter, etc., how much do I need to conform to other people’s ideas of how I conduct my life? I think in a lot things, there’s what I would do based on what I want to do, and there’s what I actually do based on how it will affect the people around me. It’s a compromise — “No, I don’t really want to go to your jewelry party but you are my friend so I will show up as long as you don’t expect me to buy a bunch of expensive crap that I don’t need.”

And from the other perspective, how often do I scrutinize my friends and neighbors and expect them to live up to my expectations? Do I expect perfection? Do I make unreasonable demands on things they “should” be doing when maybe those things just aren’t important to them? Is it unfair to expect the people around me to adjust their behaviors for my own comfort? And to what extent are their quirks really affecting my day-to-day life anyway? Are they just a few dandelions on the lawn or are they causing little earthquakes?

I think the bottom line is that very few of us exist in a vacuum. I think you have to be true to yourself but be considerate to people around you. Don’t be the neighborhood jackass. Accept that people are rarely going to give you perfection — and that you will rarely have perfection to offer them. Decide what you can live with.

And if you see a few dandelions here and there, sit your ass on the grass and take a good look. They’re actually sorta pretty.

I am having what Oprah calls a full-circle moment.   I’m sitting in a certain coffeehouse near-ish to my home. I was writing about something else and it wasn’t going well. Then they put Jeffrey Gaines on the sound system. (Do you know him? You should…) It occurred to me that it was RIGHT HERE, one table away from where I’m sitting right now, when I saw Jeffrey Gaines perform for the first time several years ago. It’s not a big room and Jeffrey is a big, passionate guy. It was one of those shows were time and space sort of bend and the air gets thick with magic.

At the time, I was a new-ish mom. I didn’t get out much. As I sat there listening to these powerful songs about longing and truth and being who you really are, it occurred to me — more like hit me like an anvil over the head — that this life I was living didn’t quite fit me. I was stifled and lonely. I loved being a mom but I also wanted to be so much more. I needed to speak. I needed to find my voice. I really, really needed to start writing again — and not about OSHA violations.

And I found that what I was waiting for for so long was something that I had to give myself. I wanted permission. I wanted someone to say to me, “You have great potential. You were born to do this. You MUST write. The world needs it.” But things rarely happen like that in life. There’s no American Idol for most of us. We just do what we do — put in the work that we really want to do anyway. We put in the work whether anyone notices or not — because it brings joy, because it fulfills a need, because it makes us feel whole and allows us to appreciate life a little more. 

And now I sit here in the same place, listening to the same music four or five years later. I have not written the Great American Novel. But I have two great chapters that I’m really proud of that I think could someday germinate into something lovely. I’m not a columnist for a national publication. But I have this little blog here that a bunch of you read and I got a nice little bit of recognition for it recently. I’m not a size whatever. But my pants are loose and I’m learning how to be kind to my body. I’m not 22 and I’m glad about that because I’m a lot smarter now. I’m not meeting my husband at the door with lingerie on but we’re talking and being honest about what we need. My kids are cute and healthy and smart and funny. I feel like I’m on the path I’m supposed to be on even if it is extremely rocky sometimes.

For right now I feel like I’m pointed in the right direction. I’m not sure where I’m going to end up. But that’s OK. I have this step right here in front of me and when it’s time to take the next step, the direction will be clear.

So, little blogmuffins, what I have learned that’s worth sharing here? I’ve learned that you have to be honest. And that there are sometimes many layers to honesty and it takes time for them all to come up. But speaking that first truth, even if it’s hard and not very pretty, will start the ball rolling. I’ve learned that to live a good life, you  have to be authentic. You can’t be who other people “need” you to be — you have to be who you are. You can’t wait for someone to annoint you or validate you, you have to take those first steps forward. And I’ve learned that I am the only person inside my crazy, overactive brain. I better make sure that I’m good company.

Someone somewhere once said that an acorn can only be an oak tree. So don’t pretend to be another kind of tree if you’re not.

And with that, I will sign off, my dear, sweet bloggy pals. I wish you all an authentic day.

A few weeks ago I was in the car going over a bridge when I saw two deer legs sticking straight up, reaching toward heaven. Where was the rest of the deer, you might ask? If you really, really must know, it was plowed into the snowbank on the side of the bridge. Makes you wonder: Was the deer already roadkill when the plow came by or was there one really bloody snowplow roaming the streets someplace? But it got me to thinking: what else was in those snowbanks? What other little (or big) morsels are awaiting all of us when the snow finally, finally, effing finally melts?

And because I’m me and it’s always a nonstop party in this head of mine, it got me to thinking: what’s in my personal but metaphorical snowbank that got shoved to the side all winter but will soon be revealed in the spring thaw, forcing me to deal with the rotting carcasses I put on ice all winter? Hmmmm….

I pondered that question as I did a twist-and-pull maneuver to get the applesauce out of the fridge. I had to employ that advanced mom move to unstick it from the fridge shelf. (I briefly considered hitting the jar with a hammer but, you know, it’s glass.)

So obviously, it’s time to start spring cleaning. But the problem is that I am pretty sure that I never started winter cleaning. There’s a big item in the old snowbank.

I hate cleaning. (I can hear a few of you out there loudly thinking about how you LIKE cleaning. I will ask you to think a little more quietly, please.) Yes, I like having a clean house. I just don’t like having to make it that way myself. Yes, it’s like wanting to have ripped abs without doing a thousand crunches. I know this whole thing is irrational and lazy of me. But cleaning doesn’t fit into my schedule. If I have time to clean, I have to time to read a book or write something or indulge in something completely selfish and gluttonous, like taking a shower. 

So blowing off cleaning felt sort of good for a while. But also bad. Like when you were in college and you had a massive paper due the next day that you hadn’t quite started but you decided to go drinking anyway and just sit at the bar and laugh with your friends about what an idiot you were. But you knew there would be consequences.

I’m not getting graded on my housekeeping, but there are consequences here, too. I am SO not a neat freak, but I do believe that there’s some sort of connection from the state of your house to the state of your mind. (Ever watch Hoarders?) So I do get a little cranky when the house turns into a landfill. However, I also have to say that I appreciate a little clutter to keep things interesting. I don’t know how people keep their houses looking like museums at all times — like no one cooks there or sits on couch there or uses the bathroom sink  there. I am uncertain of whether to be suspicious of these people or impressed by their ability to be so immaculately immaculate.  Are their minds that immaculate, too, or are they just really, really overcompensating for something? To go through life so afraid to leave a mark on the place where you live, I don’t know. Shouldn’t there be some evidence that you exist in your own home?

I will now move on.

In the interest of beating this metaphor to death, I am starting to get glimpses of other things that were shoved into the snowbank all winter. I pretty much went dormant this season. I moved as little as possible. I didn’t do a lot of things that are normally important to me: reading, writing, exercising, socializing. I hibernated (even though I didn’t get very much sleep). I got up every day. I fed and clothed my family. I put them to bed at night. I slogged through illnesses and weather and canceled school. I awoke again the next day and did it again. I tried to believe that if I just kept getting up and going to bed, one day I would wake up and see the green tips of the tulips and the hyacinths poking out of the ground in my front flowerbed.

And now they are there. And it’s supposed to snow again today. But it doesn’t matter. I’m already waking up. And I’m feeling that even though I was dormant all winter, some important things were going on under the surface. I feel hopeful. About what exactly, I’m not sure. And that’s great. Because some of the best things in my life were things that I could’ve never predicted. I feel energized. I feel vibrant. I feel like my silliness is returning.

So hang in there with me, blogmuffins. Good things are on the horizon for all of us. If I ever get the house cleaned up, perhaps I’ll have you over for coffee someday.