Children of a Lesser Mom

They rhyme in rhythm
and compound the energy
surrounding them.
They frolic in the fray
astounding them
and receive the love that
is handed them.
They usher words into gaps
where silence drowned them
giving voice and sound to them.
They seek truth  from the lies
that were bound to them
knowing it can be found when
they are on this earthly ground
though much is confounding them.
Their laughter is joy profound
and I, me, am humbly gifted 
to simply be around for them.

In Lieu of My Refrain

For the love of Webster, here I am stringing words together again. I love to write and thankfully, I have enjoyed attention for it:

• Elementary school -  poem published in the school newspaper. 
• Honored by the Masonic Temple as tops in my class during 6th grade grad ceremony.
• Junior High - met Coach Carter and started to write for real.
• Went to NYC in junior year, attended the Columbia University Journalism Convention at Coach Carter's insistence.
• High School - Editor of the Jet Express.
• Recruited Robin Thomas to write reviews on movies, music and anything else that was on her mind. For those of you who know her, just imagine her very first blog.
• Won First Place, Oklahoma Interscholastic Press Association Award for Editorial writing.
• Freshman year at junior college - first essay written was singled out by professor, resulting in scholarship nomination and award of $125.00 US dollars toward my education.
• Subsequently recruited by the junior college newspaper for a staff writing position. Covered many hot topics including the need for more student parking on campus.

Then it stopped, not the opportunities, not the praise, but me.  I stopped.

Life happened.

Had a child, got a real job, became an accountant, got married and divorced and married and divorced again. Had three more kids along the way. See prior blog posts if you must.

Last night while enjoying a moment with my children, watching one of their Nickelodeon TV shows, I was blindsided by the choices I've made in my life, or to be more specific, the life I thought I would have as a writer.

So innocent was the thought behind the words, so pure was the message, I laughed, hugged, applauded, then explained to my nearly nine year old daughter how the words she had so quietly and irreverently spoken were equally inspirational and brilliant.  These words came from the daughter who does not put herself out there very often.  She saves her moments, she processes and intellectualizes while her sister is charging the windmills of her Don Quixote inspired spirit.  This introspective, happy-go-lucky, beautiful child asked me if I had ever wanted to be famous.

Sure, I said.  I always imagined myself being a famous writer some day.

And with that, came the six words that pierced the veil of my very existence, "when did you change your mind"? 

I should have known this would come from her. I have not dared write or speak of this as I wasn't sure if reality was in charge that night or I was under the delusion of some postpartum induced fantasy. And if it was real, how could I possibly find the words to describe how this gentle daughter of mine allowed me to see the universe on the night she was born.

I suppose it was fortunate I was in extreme pain, which left me no choice but to be wide awake when it happened. Holding her, propped up on my knees, staring at her as she stirred and then in the blink of an eye, or maybe it was five minutes, or perhaps an hour, I saw into her past and I knew from where she had come. Many lifetimes, so much wisdom, it felt like staring into an infinite mirror where the reflection was beyond my mortal understanding and yet it was recognizable even into infinity. It was me. She was me, she was my choice and she was a wise old soul here for some serious business.

So many times I have questioned this moment as I observe her in her daily comings and goings. Can it be true? Surely it is the wild one who was sent to teach me, not her, not the one who rarely ever expresses but almost always compromises to the whims of her identical twin.

I almost missed her message. After she said it, I remember thinking about it for just a moment before I realized the gravity of it. What made you change your mind?

And just as she had done on the night she was born, she had once again allowed me to see a glimpse of my own truth 1) either wake the fuck up and believe what you know or 2) go back to sleep and pretend none of this ever happened.  I get the mediocrity of my bullet points above. I realize I was not changing the world or even working hard at this craft. Yet, the messages were finding their way to me, in spite of my denial and in lieu of my refrain.


I haven't changed my mind baby girl, but I have been acting like I have.  Thank you gracious, tenacious.

Thank God for you, quiet messenger of the universe that you are. May I always be open to the gifts you bring.

Saturday Morning Swim Switch

We walk into the steamy pool area of our local high school every Saturday morning with heavy winter gear; coats, hats, gloves, scarfs, boots and for my daughters, swim suits buried underneath those tantamount layers. It was an idea spawned from my obsessive compulsive need to make sure my girls never fear the water as I did/do. Well that, and the fact that their two best friends are competitive swimmers.

The girls are taking to it like fish in the......strike that.  Like sea bass on a hot grill waiting to be served to Oprah and Gayle. They are all in, fully invested and they make my heart skip a beat when I watch them glide along the water as I could never do.  There is a rather infamous story of me told by The Leaders of The Free World. It has been embellished over the years, I am certain of that.  And depending upon who recounts the tale, it is either told as a horrifying experience or the most hilarious thing ever witnessed at a lake house.

We had been boating and floating most of the day.  After docking the boat, we cranked up the Toby Keith tunes and sat at the edge of the water, drinking our Corona's and enjoying the sacredness of our much too infrequent reunions.  As the sun grew more intense, we all slowly drifted out into the lake, standing amongst the fish and squishy, tickly, disgusting plant life that inhabits the bottom of a lake.  I was uncomfortable at best but the conversation was getting deep and so was I.  Without realizing it, I apparently backed off a ledge of some sort and was starting to go under, grasping for my friend with one arm while carefully keeping my Corona arm safely above sea level, or lake level as the case may be.

But my girls will never know the agony of choosing to save their own life or that of a frosty cold beverage, for they will be the greatest of swimmers.  The one thing that saddens me at these Saturday morning swim sessions is witnessing the parade of divorced families using this noon hour as the drop off point for the switch from mom's house to dad's or vice versa. I see the bags packed full of weekend gear, I see the mom's giving those extra long goodbye hugs and I see the kids who don't appear bothered at all, for they have settled into this life, this routine that is comfortable and common to them.  "Don't worry, kids are resilient", they all say.

And I am reminded how ugly the face of divorce can be. I clearly remember my ex coming to pick up the kids for the first "switch day". I remember the twin whom I had guessed would be falling apart was brave and stoic, while her sister screamed and reached for me as she was carried out the door.  I could hear her screams all the way to the car.  I shut the door behind me and slid down to the floor, like a hollowed out tree, there was nothing left inside of me. I was numb.

While cleaning out some old files, I recently ran across a photo taken of Mr. Sunshine with the kids, just after our separation. It was a black and white photo used in a campaign brochure for his run at a seat in the State Assembly.  The Commando is standing next to him with his arm around his dad and a look on his face that brought me right back to that empty, hollowed out vortex I once inhabited. I looked at the innocence of a child who was being manipulated by a man terrified of losing his children.

I saw the brightness that has only recently returned to his eyes and I also saw a little guy who wanted nothing more than to please his dad.  Smile for the camera, let's tell the voting public we are a happy family, while behind the scenes, he was witnessing the unraveling of his father.  Mommy left us....mommy took the toaster so I can't make toast for breakfast, as he broke down crying in front of them for the very first time.  For years, I couldn't make toast without one of them screaming at me for taking daddy's toaster, the same toaster I had had since I first moved out on my own at the age of 19. It was only recently one of them finally opened up to me about what happened that day.  He must have been holding in all of his guilt, anger and raw emotion when the toaster's disappearance served as the catalyst for him to release it.

Eventually, as all divorced families do, we settled into our own routine; that is, until he made the decision to commit a felony fraud landing himself in a country club to serve 30 months of cooking, gardening and exercise duty while I usher the kids through this most difficult of transitions.  I've been through the unraveling of our son and I've seen him put back together again.  I am seeing more subtle signs from the girls.  Just as in that black and white photo, when they were too young to truly process their pain, they are now too strong to let this openly bother them; but the truth is there, if you look closely enough.  They are taking their emotions out on each other, as only twins could do.

Sitting through teacher conferences last week, I was told in each case, one by one, all three of these children are "gifted writers". It is up to me to nurture this in them.  I know what it is to have it, but I don't know what it is to believe in it from an early age.  We are always writing stories, or telling stories, or imagining a great title for a book or noticing humanity for the good and the bad.  Soaking it in until we realize we can internalize it, process it and then tell it in a way that is earth bending.

Watching the American Idol preliminary auditions recently, one of the girls quickly surmised a pattern.  She noticed when a contestant has a gut wrenching back story told prior to their audition, they will inevitably be a good singer.  I was amazed at how quickly she tuned into this.  As obvious as it is to us, that's some pretty heady stuff for an 8 year old.  As I tucked her into bed weeks later, she told me she had come to another realization. "Mommy, I am living my own back story right now, aren't I", she asked with an intended sad inflection and a heart-melting frowney face.

Yes, you are honey. This is a hard time, a struggle of your very own but just like those singers on Idol, you know what happens when they have a difficult back story, right?  Then with confidence, she nodded and concluded she too would be a winner.

I see these families on Saturday morning through a black and white photo lens and I wonder about their lives. Are they being good and true to their children, forsaking their own anger and bitterness to do what is best for them or are they using them as weapons in their own sick battles for power, control, money or just simply to say they won? When I can feel the tension from the top row of the bleachers, I pray for them. Then I sit back and watch my beautiful girls, who have overcome so much and I pray for them too.  One of which is currently writing her autobiography.

Winter Wonderland

The kids and I have been enjoying the holiday season and the snow, believe it or not. This has been the first year in the ten years I've lived here I've decided to embrace the snow. We've gone sledding and I learned it's great exercise, climbing back up those hills wearing 20 pounds of layers.  I may have embraced the snow but mama still doesn't do cold.

We've adopted a new family member, Sable the dog who heals hearts. We've done snowmen and rode around on an icy lake and we are going to ski as a family later in February. I should preface that. It's skiing but not on a real mountain - more like a very large hill here in Wisconsin. We capped it all off by celebrating my oldest son's 25th birthday!  Yikes, I must be getting old.

I am feeling so blessed by the daily presence of my children. Some days, I get run down, rather beat down by the grind but then I remember how lucky I am to have them full time now.  Here are some of my favorite shots from Christmas and January. (The dates are incorrect on the last six photos - leave it to me to still not be able to figure out how to work a digital camera, which is further proof of my age.)

We are supposed to get two feet of snow this week. Maybe we should have gotten a taller dog.

The Commando recruited some help.

The twins preparing for the Waukesha Christmas parade.

Gracious Tenacious with Sable.

Our beautiful tree.

The dog who will soon be buried in two feet of snow.

My favorite Christmas pic of The Commando.

Thanks to my cousin Debbie in Oklahoma!

One of the girls insisted on buying this for her "Bubba".

#1 Son and his beautiful girlfriend, Melissa.

The kids on Kelly Lake, just north of Green Bay.

Just completed a Sable rescue mission on Kelly Lake.

The beautiful Ms. V at her lake house. She and hubs are the perfect hosts!

Kids at the local supper club for dinner with their friend, the Elk.

Homemade hat with Christmas goodies.

No caption can do justice to this picture.

The Commando's band concert in December, September!

My beauties.

Mama bear and her cubs.

The Commando's signature look.

#1Son's friends came to his party. We went to an old bowling alley where we had to do manual scoring.

25 YEARS AWESOME!

Appreciation Revelation

The Commando reduced me to a pile of tears and goose bumps earlier this evening. He sat me down and gave me a five minute speech on how much he appreciates all I do for him, how he thinks I am the best mom ever and how he just loves, loves, loves me.  He thanked me for getting him a dog, keeping the house tidy, paying the bills, the cooking, the laundry - pretty much everything I do day in and day out.  Then he insisted on carrying a load of laundry for me, up two flights of stairs to his sister's room.

Once there, he remained joyful, playing with his sisters (unprecedented), telling them they should appreciate me too.  "Girls, you need to tell mom how much you love her", as he came up behind me and wrapped me up in a big bear hug. 

I was suspicious at first.  Am I being prepped for some bad news or an expensive request?  Nope.  It was real. Complete and total appreciation of me.  After what we've been through, the contrast is stark.  He has not only dealt with his anger, he has surpassed all of my wildest dreams and begun to feel empathy, something I had never seen him do.  The inability to empathize is a trademark characteristic of the narcissistic personality of his father.  Yeah me!  I'm on my way to raising a boy who will be kind, caring and most of all, happy.  To say I feel like I have a new son doesn't even come close to describing the changes he has undergone.

It is remarkable, simply stunning.

Later, as the girls were getting ready for bed, I asked them to write a thank you note to their school counselor, who had bought them each a little bag of goodies for Christmas.  I know I can spin and embellish, edit and clean-up words but this is word for word what came out of their 8 year old souls:

Twin #1 - Dear Mrs. -----, Thank you so much! I loved the gingerbread pal. I wish I had one billion more left! One more thank you for always being there for me and my sister.  I use the crayons and activity book all the time. I hope u have a very fun 2011.  With love.  (Then she drew a picture of the counselor giving the gift bag to her).

Twin #2 - Dear Mrs.------, Thank you so, so, so much.  I love all the gifts. I think it was really nice of you to think of me when I was sick (she was out that day with a stomach flu). If there is anything I can do in return, just call.  Merry Christmas and happy new year!

And believe me when I say, if the school counselor ever needed something from either of these girls, all she would need to do is call.

My heart if filled with love and appreciation for these children and for the opportunity I have been given to change the course of their lives; to allow the true-self of an angry little boy to emerge and shine. Contrast the happy tears from earlier tonight with the tears from just over a month ago as I watched him cave into his rage and I worried I might have lost him forever. He once was lost, but now he is found.  I'm dying to get to know him as he excitedly prepares for his first band concert, slowly opens up to his sisters and becomes all that he was meant to be.

Those things, you know the ones, that just keep happening for a reason, which seem really, really bad, like you're not sure you're going to survive them but then you do and you realize they were sent to you as a gift are truly amazing, aren't they? I know I am appreciating the hell out of them right about now. I am visualizing a shower of appreciation blanketing our little yellow cape cod with a light dusting of snow falling ever so softly just outside my window.

Fasten Your Seatbelts, It's Christmas

In the midst of all the struggle, in the depth of this dark time, I am fortunate to receive daily doses of unconditional laughter. Whether it's from a work mate who does spot on impersonations of some of the bigger personalities in our office or from my delightfully brilliant children, who all have unprecedented vocabularies combined with fully developed humor, understanding of puns (and how to use them) and even, at times, a subtle sarcasm that may not make me laugh but certainly makes me appreciate their command of the English language and the nuances of which, many will never fully master.

(This is not meant to sound like one of those frothing at the mouth Christmas letters, they do language well, that's all I'm saying for now.)

My kids know how to use words, for the most part correctly and creatively.  I spend a lot of time with them spinning words and throwing out clever uses of synonyms, homonyms and antonyms as well as contrasting the differences between similes and metaphors. I realize they are 12 and 8 but truly, it's never to early to give your children what very well may be the one and only gift you, yourself have.  The gift of wordsmithing (which according to spell checker, is not really a word).  Maybe I should be teaching them about the meaning of the word irony instead.

My precious little minions know how I delight when they come up with an example to show me their understanding of word usage.  Just a few days ago, one of the twins put her brown, furry glove on one hand and left her other hand uncovered.  I watched as she proudly held them up in front of her sister, one of her 3rd grade friends and her parents.  She exclaimed, "Look, at my hands.  Get it?  I have a bare hand and a bear hand!"  Her sister and I were thrilled.  The other little girl was busy watching the words fly over her head while her parents gave one of those half-smiles you get when they are obviously thinking, oh shit, I think we might need to be reading more books to her.

Tonight, as we finished our third batch of Christmas cookies and put them ever so delicately into our tree shaped cookie jar.  I spun on my heels, looked them all square in the eyes, motioned them to come closer to me so they would know I was serious and said, "I need to ask you all one very important question. Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar?"

I love these moments when they realize you can draw people in, make them wait in suspense, then deliver a dose of laughter to break the tension.

Finally, perhaps the best story of the week came from the younger of the twin girls (by four minutes, no less).  As we were pulling out of the driveway, she asked if I had noticed her buckling her seat belt without having to be reminded.  It has been one of those things that I have struggled with since gaining full custody of them.  Apparently their dad and grandma let them sit in the front seat when they were too young and let them sit unbuckled in the back seat at any age.  I never got much argument when we were sharing custody but in my full time care, they somehow feel they deserve such ridiculous privileges. 

Can I ride in the front seat?

No.

Why not?

Because it's against the law and it's unsafe.

But dad let us do it all the time.

I'm sorry honey, I'm not willing to risk your lives, I'd rather have you alive than have you happily sitting in the front seat right up until the time we crash and you are taken from me forever.  Not gonna do it.  Now sit down and buckle up.

I can't believe you stopped at that yellow light mom.  Dad used to run yellow/red lights all the time.  One time, when we were late for church and we were with Sherry and her kids, he actually ran over a train track when the lights were flashing and the gates had closed.  

Again kids, I'm sorry - that doesn't make it okay.  Mommy is not willing to take those risks with you.  I want you to be safe.  Now sit down and buckle up!

Back to the original story, here I was with one of them telling me she has decided to buckle up on her own.  And believe me when I say, this is not the child I would have expected to give up without a much longer battle.  Think Braveheart. I frequently look at her and imagine her with blue paint smeared upon her delicate cheek bones.  She is nothing, if not dramatic.  So I intrepidly ask, "sweetie, why are you buckling up without mommy reminding you?"

Oh, that's easy she says.  You know how it's Christmas time right?  And at this time of year, if you were to write a story about a horrible car accident with a family inside, it would have to be the youngest child who dies, I mean right?  It's Christmas so it has to be horribly tragic, it would be the youngest to be written out of the story because that has so much more meaning.

In perfect harmony, her twin sister and older brother unbuckle their seat belt and yell "Woooohooooo".

What is a mother, a writer, a proud mother-writer or writing mother supposed to say to this?

"Sit down and buckle up, all of you".  As I drive away with a smile knowing my kids are already thinking in terms of what could make a good story.

Yet simultaneous fear and dread ascend,  knowing they know how to tell a good story, perhaps even good enough to fool me one day.

Merry Christmas to you all and make sure your youngest children are always buckled up safe and sound, at least during the holidays.

Moon Over Scotland

I can't even begin to process the things that are happening to me at lightening speed so I'm going to slow it down and give you the highlights, but not the low lights because those are just fucking depressing as shit.

I took my children to the Milwaukee Highland Games/Scottish Festival for the first time over Labor Day weekend. I told them we were essentially Scottish royalty, hailing from not only the clan Donald, but the Lord of the Clans, Macdonald.  They ate fish and chips, they watched the burly men in kilts competing in the hammer and caber competitions and they indulged me as I cried when the entire delegation of drummers and pipers walked onto the field to dedicate Amazing Grace to the policemen, firemen and American soldiers who have served or continue to serve, as well as those that have given their lives in the line of duty. I cried behind my sunglasses.  They clapped and hooped and hollered.  That was my signal that even though they didn't cry, they got it.

I delighted in watching my 12 year old son, who is the only one of my children to receive the traditional pale skin and freckles of my clan. Just as I can walk around a Scottish festival and be recognized by my naturally curly, red hair and fair skin, my son is instantly accepted, wearing camouflage shorts or a kilt, though it may take him a few years to get comfortable with the idea of a skirt and knee socks.

While we were eating lunch at an outdoor picnic table, I watched as an extremely large version of a Scottish piper made his way past us.  Keep in mind, one of my most basic tenants is my sincerest desire to not make fun of, nor harass, nor belittle any of my fellow travelers in this live; however, I found myself looking up to quickly assess the inevitable. The very same principles of physics hold true to a middle aged man who wears his jeans below his belly as do they do a man in a kilt.  When you tuck a kilt below a large protruding object, the back of said kilt will hike up in a manner that would greatly agitate even the most innocent of spectators.  In other words, his ass was showing.

And to further exasperate the experience, as is often the case with me, I said, "Look kids, the moon is shining over Scotland." Now before you get all outraged with me, you have to know, I did have enough reason to point it out when said butt cheeks were well out of the visual purview of my kids. However, when they saw him from a distance, with his calves as big as my waste, they were duly impressed.  For them, a big piper was a BIG piper, nay - a monumental piper.

Thus, I suppose the old adage once again proves true.  The bigger the better.

Footnote to this post,which has nothing whatsoever to do with this post,thus making it not so much a footnote as just a lame attempt at tacking on something that is worth mentioning but not entirely enough to dedicate a singular post:

Kids got upset with me for deleting their online internet accounts. I gave them a warning, if you go in there and trash my office again, you will all be deleted.  Eventually, I restored their restricted access.  Middle child said to me, "What were you thinking mom, how could you do that? I don't have the picture of the black and white dog anymore and you took away everything I need, I mean I don't even have Mozzarella Firefox anymore."

Let There Be Light

When my baby girl was fighting for her life in the hospital, it came to me. It sought me out and it lifted me in perhaps what has been my darkest hour to date.  It, this mysterious force, gave me the strength to pull my sleep deprived self together and to hold her up. To look her in the eye and tell her I understood her pain but at the tender age of 7, she had no other choice but to face it the way a child faces a bad dream or a monster in the closet. I told her to kick its ass.  Note: I didn't use those exact words but the meaning was conveyed. I taught her how to breath the way I was taught when giving birth.  We did our labor breathing together. 

Breath with me baby, short breaths. She would do as I asked while her eyes locked upon mine, seemingly never blinking. Her expression was one of trust but it also conveyed a vulnerability that simply said, help me.

Out of this nightmare experience, she seemed to have a new sense of strength and confidence about her. She doesn't take any crap from her big brother anymore, she is deeply connected to her emotional side and she will speak up to any perceived tyranny or injustice in her world, even if it's defending one of her stuffed animals. Besides the courage that comes during times of crisis, we were also blessed by our many friends. My daughter and I walked out of that hospital knowing we had survived because we were hooked up to an IV that fed us more that nutrition or hydration, it fed our very souls.That's what I took from the love that surrounded us. Our friends came and they carefully weaved a tightly knit net underneath us and with that, we were safe.

One friend in particular came to see us nearly every day. We had been planning a ski trip together with our kids, the very week the ruptured appendix occurred. She had graciously booked our room, using her points in a time share plan. We obviously couldn't go. We were all bummed but there was no repercussion, no pettiness, just a constant flowing love. This same woman recently offered us a weekend at a water park resort. She wanted to gift us with something that would replace our worries with fun; taking away my heartache and substituting the laughter of my children, like music to my ears.

Off we went last weekend, the four of us at a Lake Geneva resort.  A mom, still slightly less than whole from heartbreak and kids who are living with the fear of their dad going to jail.  Add to that, the girls don't know about our breakup yet. They are asking about Michaela every day. They literally see her in everything, a bowl of noodles, a horse, a bird. I am hoping we can arrange for her to remain a part of our lives but if it doesn't work out, they have more disappointment, more suffering heading their way.

Thank goodness for our water park adventure. We played all day and night, ate pizza and ice cream, and went down one particular water slide that the kids loved but in my mind, it felt like I was on a death slide to hell.  It was narrow so you went sans a raft, mat or tube. Just you, in total darkness, for what seemed like five minutes of twisty, tormenting, torturous abyss. Did I mention it was pitch black? You don't know when you're going to turn and you don't know when it's going to end. I tried closing my eyes but that only made it scarier. I'm praying, please God - let there be light at the end of this thing and let it be soon.

Finally, I was unceremoniously dumped into the water the way a load of laundry get's pulled under during the rotation cycle. I emerged to see the smiles and thumbs up signs from the kids. It is symbolic of course. Many times in life, we are forced down these dark tunnels but if we keep moving and keep praying, there is always light at the end. I am blessed to have four children who are beacons of light. We may all be going down a new scary yellow tunnel soon but I will remind them to keep breathing, keep moving and keep praying until it doesn't hurt anymore.

The light will emerge from the darkness and we will go under a bit before we can poke our heads above the water and walk away stronger, more confident and able to face whatever twisty turn life has in store for us next.

Come on, Vogue

My friends, The Leaders of the Free World, like to tease me about how well I photograph. I'm not sure how I figured it out but somewhere down the line, I learned how to address the camera. It's a bit of a chin tilt and suck maneuver, while making love to the camera with your eyes.  I tried to teach this to the group last weekend on our girls trip but for some reason, when they tried it, they ended up looking like confused fish who suddenly found themselves on dry land. 

Truth be told, my girlfriends photograph well without tucking and sucking. They are beautiful just as they are. I should not have attempted to mess with those natural gifts. 

However, I couldn't resist showing them that even eight year old girls can pull off the look. I snapped these today after my daughters attended a spa diva party. They like to be photographed and they love being frilly. Combine that and the result is two photogenic mini divas and no, under no circumstances did I ask them to make love to the camera with their eyes.  But really, I just wanted to show off these pictures because I'm a proud mama. Enjoy!

Gemini Hearts - Gracious One

I love this photo of my sweet little Gracious Tenacious.  She's the older half (by four minutes) of my identical twin girls. The photo just screams Happy Memorial Day to me. Perhaps it's the flag in the background or more likely; it's because this Memorial Day marked the 8th birthday of my girls.

I've been doing my best to remind them to stop growing. To freeze in their current state since they were around 4 years old but much like an cocooned butterfly or a perfectly formed rosebud, they just continue to move, change and grow; opening up to reveal a little more beauty that lies within.

I was invited to bring the kids to a Brewers game last week. With Zen Boyfriend, we are a group of seven. It was one of those business events where your contractor invites you to join them in their luxury suite complete with food, drinks and a smoking hot view just over the third base dugout. Our host would later comment how he thought we had roughly 43 kids at the event and 40 of them were mine.  He also noted how well behaved they were. I think he was being polite.  They had their moments.

Two of my children are like a fire and gasoline. While a moth seeks out a flame, gasoline generally doesn't; however, these two children delight in it. It's the Warrior Princess with her new found strength and opinions versus her brother, The Commando. Quiet little Gracious sometimes get's lost in the ensuing fray or rather I should say, she chooses to remove herself from it.

Hence at some point during the game, I noticed she had been missing for quite some time. When I polled the other kids, they all said the same thing, "oh, she's been up there taking to some strange lady all night". Say what?

I looked behind me and there they were, sitting in the suite's luxurious lounge chairs, each with a hand tucked  under their chin supported by an elbow resting on the arm of their respective chairs, leaning into each other looking as if they were discussing the various philosophies of Eastern religion. I let them be.

When the fire and gasoline had reached maximum combustible potential, I began to round up the troops to leave. We had made it through the famous sausage races, stood up and sang for the seventh inning stretch and had a comfortable lead with a score of 5 to zero. It was time to go.

I approached the woman who had been so enthralled with my daughter and thanked her for keeping her company all night. I told her this little girl was my introspective, shy one and that it was uncharacteristic of her to speak with someone with whom she had just met. The woman then explained that she herself was painfully shy. She came to these business events with her husband but dreaded the random chit chat required.

The woman thanked me for sharing my daughter with her. She said it was a delightful privilege and one of the  more intelligent conversations she had encountered at one of these stuffy, unnerving business events. In that crowded room of overstuffed lounge chairs and even more overstuffed personalities, egos and agendas, two people with quiet hearts and sweet, thoughtful contemplations found each other.

To my Gracious one - I want you to know you may not always get all the attention but I see you.  You are an old spirit, filled with many lifetimes of wisdom, at peace with the present moment and bursting with an inner beauty that draws people to you like a moth to a flame - a gentle, warm, non-combustible flame that will flicker and shine for your entire lifetime.

Gemini Heart Series - Soul Sisters

I am often asked what is it like to raise identical twins. It's a loaded question for me, which generally ends with me asking the asker if they have time to pull up a chair and let me fill them in on the copious notes I have taken throughout the clinically controlled, scientifically documented nature vs. nurture experiment known as raising twins. It is nothing short of fascinating to watch them at their best and at their worst. 

As such, I've decided to feature a regular post here at Stalking Sunsets and by regular I mean when something happens to warrant a post or when the mood strikes me.  This is a case of the former. I feel it is indeed warranted to share; ultimately because I want these girls to have a record of the years that will eventually cloud with age and clutter of the adult female mind, but also because it's damn good stuff.

I suppose it goes without saying, identical twins have a bond like no other. I didn't fully understand the depth of the bond until I watched helplessly as the older twin (by four minutes) endured the sight of her little sister screaming from the pain of a ruptured appendix, surgery, complications, nausea, tenderness, etc. Everyone was focused on the one in pain but looking back, I believe the experience was actually more difficult for the one who had to watch. It was as if she felt the pain, the uncertainty and the fear deep within her soul.

She would later write in her journal, "Once my sister was in the hosbidell and it was very hard for me watching them poke her, lisaning to the screaming and crying but every day I would go to the hosbidell, after school of course because she is my sister, my one and only twin sister".

One day during her hospital stay, my daughter was asked by one of my friends if she thought it was hard on her sister to see her in pain.  She answered the question by telling a story:

Well it's kinda like this. There was this one time when the ice cream truck came down the street and we all grabbed our money and ran out the door just in time to catch him.  After we bought our ice cream, a whole crowd turned around to walk away and somebody bumped my sister, causing her ice cream to drop on top of all the gravel along the curb.  It was ruined and there was nothing we could do about it because the ice cream truck was already too far gone. You know how that would make you feel, right? If everybody else had ice cream and you didn't, it would make you want to cry.

To which my friend replied, did it make you cry? And with a slight nod of her head we understood exactly how deeply her sister must have been affected by this horrible "hosbidell" experience. It made us, sitting their on her bed, want to cry for them both.

When they were once again reunited at home, this is how they slept together that first night back. To call it a bond seems trite and cliche. It is more like a deeply entrenched connection where they are literally one half of the same soul.