Loss, Links & Long Days

"I need to take a walk," I announced after a deliciously indulgent Southern breakfast. Stuffed full of a fresh biscuit coated with gravy with a side of bacon and eggs, I wondered briefly if it would hurt when I had a heart attack or what region of my brain might suffer most during a stroke. Frowning when my hosts wanted to take teleconferences in the car, I abandoned them without regret to wander the pleasant neighborhood our diner inhabited.

I paused to take photos, charmed by the juxtaposition of new flowers against old brick buildings, overgrown bushes laden with pink blossoms next to shiny cars neatly aligned on blacktop surfaces. I lifted my face to the sun, paused to admire the clouds, and continued along the sidewalk, smiling at people who passed by.

Being in the South, even for less than 24 hours, elicits a bittersweet homesickness for a home I no longer have. Cheese biscuits and conversations with Friend. Matlab code and journal revisions and the cadence of Boss's voice when he'd offer advice. I nearly wept when I saw him, by the way, when we were both in the same place at the same time recently. He stood patiently while I finished a conversation, but as soon as I turned my head to see him, I smiled widely and blinked back tears.

"I have to go," I interrupted my colleague. "That's Boss and I love him." And so we hugged and talked and I basked in the sameness of him - of the constant kindness and gentle strength and aura of comfort. "I miss you," I told him and nodded when he said they missed me too. I sighed against the ache in my heart as I remembered it this morning and walked back to the car, waiting in the sunshine until their conversation ceased and we set off for our next meeting.

"Do you have a moment to talk?" I asked Advisor on the phone the other day, beginning the conversation with the man who led my graduate career in much the same way as two other women began conversations with me. "I have colleagues - friends, really - who have family members suffering from a disease of interest. And they're aware - primarily because I talk all the time - of new research and alternate therapies and want advice on who they can see and what they can do. And it's sweet - this urge to help someone they love - so who do you know that I can ask for favors?"

And because I do him favors - talk to students interested in Industry, offer feedback on papers in my area of expertise - he paused to think before rattling off names, ordering me to call him back if they were not properly responsive.

I called one friend back with a new name and Google search term before eating my seafood bisque with the colleague - not yet friend - across the table of the airport restaurant.

"I feel like an old woman sometimes," I admitted, pausing to poke at the lumps of crab in my bowl admiringly. "I'm tired."

"You got in late," he replied and I nodded, remembering the trudge through this same airport after midnight. Traveling for 8 hours after putting in 10 at the office. The emails unanswered (but read - I always read email promptly) and ever-growing lists of tasks. The meager hours I slept, interrupted by an alarm set for 5AM, and a burst of knowledge at 6:30 that I'd not completed my presentation.

"Tell Adam," I joked after said colleague noted my amazing performance this afternoon. I was charming and funny, smart and engaging. I shrugged at the quizzical look I received in response to my comment and noted that Adam wanted to travel with me as he was concerned at how I interacted with customers.

"You're perfect," he protested - my colleague and now friend - and I smiled at him sleepily before rising to give hugs, pressing my cheek to his for a moment in grateful affection for a much-needed compliment. Deciding said compliment, even paired with a new necklace and shiny shoes, was inadequate to coax myself through the trip home, I bought a book - a rather racy romance - and chocolate. And settled in to write a blog post at the gate before returning to rest and repeat the cycle of lengthy days.

Late Bloomer

I winced, both at the conversation I could overhear and the odor of burning electronics in the Physics lab. I huddled quietly in the basement of the science structure on my undergraduate campus, waving my hands and blowing frantically at the poor circuit board to dispel the wispy trails of smoke that wafted upward.

"Crap, crap, crap," I muttered, glaring at my independent study workbook and wishing I was less of a 'guess and check' scientist. Feeling rather inadequate over my failure already, I cocked my head to listen as the president of our Physics Society spoke to the Department Chair.

"She just said she couldn't make it," the former told the latter. "No suggestions of another time. No plans for how she could be involved apart from the meetings. Just - no, but thanks. She doesn't fit in."

And I blinked back tears, feelings terribly hurt but knowing he was right. I didn't find Physics all that interesting, frankly, and if I couldn't follow step-by-step instructions within the detailed pages on the thick black table before me, how could I get excited about joining a group of boys who wanted to build robots and discuss advanced calculus? So while I wanted to be geeky and smart and belong, I did not. And the knowledge made me terribly sad.

Maybe it would happen later, I hoped as I returned to the cozy apartment with bright green carpet that I shared with 3 other young women.

"I think I caught the circuit board on fire," I told one roommate sadly and she put her shoulder against mine as we sat on the plaid couch and said that probably happened to a lot of people. And I was comforted by the gentle support, the uncompromising loyalty, the scoffing dismissal of the Silly Physics Society and it's president. And then it didn't hurt to breathe anymore. I had someone who loved me. Who wanted to spend time with me. Who thought I was special and smart and funny and worthwhile and...beautiful, somehow. Full of potential but also lovely the way I was. There was no need in that moment to grow my stem or spread my leaves or hope my petals were the proper color. I just rested my head on Anna's shoulder and soaked in the support like sunshine.

Conversely, I felt shrouded in darkness under a cloudless sky when I sat in the circle on the grass at the end of junior high. I had been the only one at leadership camp to indicate I'd rather spend time with family than friends. And I looked around at my fellow campers, all of us awkward and odd in various ways, and wondered what was so wrong with me. Why I didn't feel the same sense of unity with my peers and eschewed time with them for sharing conversations with Mom or reading books alone in my bedroom. There were no friends I trusted with secrets, having been crushed when people talked about me or judged my feelings or choices.

Better, I decided, to remain contained and a bit aloof. Less risky. And that trend held true as I finished 8th grade and moved to high school. I thought I found friends a couple times - felt this flutter of hope that someone knew and liked me - and was always proven wrong by giggles around corners or whispers in the back of the room.

It was likely a valuable, albeit painful, learning experience - predicting motives, reading facial expressions and body language, slowly understanding that unhappy people make others miserable, often inadvertently, and that a core of confidence and strength was necessary to withstand that and to find those people who could love me after I finished high school.

And find them I did, though the effort was more theirs than mine, as they nudged against barriers and coaxed me through conversations and tolerated my need for solitude. I still remember falling asleep in my dorm room and later in that 4-bedroom, 2-bathroom apartment just across the street from campus, and feeling blessed that I had friends. Eventually, I thought, colleagues would follow the same trend. I would find people at work - it would just take me more time than it did others.

Sure enough, it happened in grad school. Through classmates and my research group, I had people I loved as friends and respected as intellectuals. And I took to them like a duck to water, trained by my college roommates to believe that the right people would love and take care of me.

Upon arrival in Montreal, I shuddered as I sat in the taxi next to a scientist at work. "I despise that man," I told him and he looked at me in surprise.

"I couldn't tell," he finally replied, referring to my friendly greeting and polite conversation as we waited in line for our car.

"I tried very hard," I commented. "But that was Pete." And he shook his head as I told him the story and said derogatory things about Pete's character, with which I agreed. "Horrible man," I noted in conclusion. And I learned - admittedly late - that while there are people you can trust and adore, it does not apply to every person in my career. And while I'm not completely bitter anymore, I do still retrain that instinctive distrust of certain people. Which is likely healthy, I suppose.

I'll admit I assumed the trend would hold for falling in love as well. That - eventually - someone would come along who thought my flaws were charming and saw beauty and potential and something wonderful. And so my heart flutters when I feel I might be close - when I might have found someone I think is amazing who returns my smiles or tangles his fingers with mine. But those splashes of color are, for me, delicate. The petals droop and wither, stems bend against the pressure of wind and rain and I remain alone.

But wiser, I offer when in need of comfort. With a solid family who calls to tell me Chienne takes naps with Smallest One and ran around my parents' yard chasing tennis balls and frisbees while I'm traveling through next week. Friends who send email even after I've neglected them for months, making my heart happy even as I acknowledge how much I miss them. Colleagues who, for the most part, are supportive and friendly and brilliant - even as I figure out which to trust and how to hold people at a respectable distance. And maybe love will happen. Later.

± 7

Today
You know how some things just feel right? After you make a decision or submit a manuscript or accept a job offer and you have that happily peaceful feeling that you did something positive? You're on the right path? Then there are times I'm less certain. Where I'm torn between pros and cons and can't figure out if I'd be happier with or without. And then I struggle, my brain busily teasing out every detail, worrying about potential outcomes, hurt feelings, catastrophic harm.

I have lately been a little lost. Questioning my career path and regretting some personal choices. Wanting to sleep more and work less. Cringing when my phone rings instead of answering with curiosity or confidence. I just haven't felt good - happily peaceful - about life in general for a while now.

And I miss it.

-7
In 2004, I found myself in jolly old England, a place I'd wanted to visit since my literature class in high school and that I was constantly amazed to exist in once I arrived. I was nearly giddy with the old and interesting buildings! Charming accents! Shops and tea and cookies! Oops, biscuits! But still!!!

It was the first meeting I'd attended solo, Advisor and students in my group all having various conflicts. So I flew across the Atlantic with some trepidation but was so impossibly charmed when I arrived that I couldn't help but smile as I walked and looked and listened.

I got lost, of course, my poor sense of direction combined with my distracting curiosity and rampant photo-taking to leave me in a place and not knowing where I was or what direction to go. And so I would find a spot out of people's way and stare at the map in my guidebook. Look carefully at street signs and painstakingly orient myself before stepping (without much confidence) in the direction I thought might be right.

I forced myself to talk to people. To encourage questions at my poster presentation. To ask questions at other posters. (I still don't know if I could ask a question after a talk - it seems quite scary.) To ask strangers to dinner or coffee. To join other students for a drink in a pub just down the way.

And I was so proud of myself - I still remember puffing up with self-confidence when I mustered my courage and tried so hard and it went OK.

+7
It frankly amazes me how extensive my network has become. How I've seen 3 people so far who I knew as academic and hundreds (literally) who know me from my current role. And while some of those relationships were carefully planned and executed and maintained, others just happened. Someone would remember that I laughed at his joke or said something charming in a meeting. I answered a student's question or took a phone call about a research submission or connected two colleagues working on similar projects.

And so even as I catch up with one collaborator, making notes and asking questions, I sometimes break eye contact to smile at a colleague, wink at a friend or reach to rub a shoulder of someone I think is wonderful. I chirp hellos on my way to buy water or find chamomile tea or reach a different meeting room.

And it's easy somehow - the idle chatting, the direct questions, even dealing with problems. I find I know what to say and when I flub it, I shrug it off far more quickly than I once did. I want to understand things, so sometimes I ask obvious questions or require additional detail. I want people to like me so I take extra meetings and make additional presentations and answer a few more questions. And I find it feels good - more toward the 'happily peaceful' state I like to inhabit.

-7
I finally gave up on myself in London, accepting that I required a guide to at least glance at everything in this amazing city where I only had a day away from the conference where I had free time. So I got on a bus, taking a seat on the double of the deckers and rode around, listening to the British voice in my headphones tell me about Peter Pan in that park or the royal family who lived behind those gates or how that building there was like a wedding cake.

In truth, I don't mind being told what to do. I'm good at following directions and learning by example or trial and error. I don't like making mistakes but I will do and generally try to make it better somehow. So though London seemed to go by far too fast as I rode on that bus, I did feel safe and protected and productive. At least until I had to find my way through the tangle of streets and pretty things to see to arrive back at my hotel.

+7
I feel a bit less lost having spent time here. I wandered around the old section of town this afternoon, needing some time in the sunshine and some photos for my blog. I made my way around with lazy confidence, not looking at my map or really caring what I saw or how I got there. I had some time and comfortable flats and while my dress was wispy, my tights and sweater kept me warm.

As I stepped carefully on the streets, uneven with stones that had shifted or cracked over time, I realized I'm finding a bit of balance again - I'm not positive this is exactly the right path, but I believe I'm directionally correct. I think there are some changes to be made - learn to breathe properly, listen to God, pay attention to my body, find my bliss at work once again - but I think I can find my way.

After many years of getting pretty lost, I should be good at it.

± 8

Perhaps it was because Suzy - who reminds me a bit of a younger Katie in only good ways - sent an email. As I wrote her back I was thinking of myself when I was finishing my Masters in 2003 and realized it was then that I attended my first first conference. And since I am returning to the friendly confines of Canada, albeit a different city, I thought an indulgently retrospective post would be a pleasant progress check.

2003
I'd not been on a plane since a single ride when Brother was still in diapers, making me all of 5 or 6 years old. I was beyond terrified about air travel (at all of 24 years of age) and considered driving to Toronto. Which while not impossible, certainly did not match the plans of my peers. And I did want to fit in.

So I remember sitting in the small airport in my grad school city and trembling with nerves. A younger student in my group arrived just before boarding and took the window seat beside me once on the plane, burying his cute little nose in a magazine while I watched the flight attendant with utter focus, making my seatbelt painfully tight in an effort to become as safe as humanly possible.

"We're not going fast enough," I whispered to 1stYear and he turned to look at me quizzically.

"We're taxiing, Katie," he replied before flipping a page and returning to his reading. I clenched every muscle in my body and stared in horror out the window as we made a turn then picked up speed. As the wheels left the ground, I nearly hyperventilated, so consuming was my panic.

I could have reached for 1stYear's hand - he wasn't a bad guy and would have offered comfort had he known I needed it - but I remembered that he disclosed that many girls had crushes on him. And there's nothing that takes a boy - then or now - from 'ooh' to 'ew' faster than knowing he thinks he's pretty. So I panted and prayed and panicked on my own.

"I can't do this but I can't avoid it!" I remember thinking, wondering how the hell I was going to make it through the short flight and then force myself onto a connecting flight to get to Toronto.

+8
"Hey, Katie," a colleague greeted me. I glanced up and smiled, a mere 10 pages into the book I'd just purchased and tucked my boarding pass between the pages before tossing it in my bag and giving my attention to him.

We chatted pleasantly - of inconsequential things - until it was time to board. I wandered down the jetway and stuffed my duffel into the overhead bin before tucking my laptop away in front of me. I read a magazine on the short flight, burying my own cute little nose in the pages and ignoring my surroundings until we reached the connecting airport.

I boarded the next flight just as easily, mostly relaxed due to extensive experience being up in the air. I read the papers I brought along, underlining words and phrases and making notes in the margins so I could write my own summaries. I mapped out questions and looked over my plans for the week, tapped the screen in front of me to watch news and a comedy before landing and clearing customs. (How much do I love personalized in-flight entertainment? So Much!)

I couldn't remember the exact date so I guessed as I filled in my card. And some of my letters extended outside their allocated boxes. But I'll admit I remain fairly careful, always eager to earn approval by following rules.


-8
I was wired upon arrival, having sipped every last drop of my water and crunched on the ice cubes on both flights. On our last one, I filled out my immigration card with complete attention and care, clutching it and my brand-new passport in trembling hands as I wondered whether the Canadians would be so cruel as to deny me entry and force me back on a dreaded plane before I'd mustered my courage over the coming week.

They did let us in, of course, and we took a cab (I paid as 1stYear's ATM card didn't work and my careful planning left me with some $300 Canadian in cash) to the hotel.

"Wow," I murmured when we entered the lobby, a bellman taking our suitcases and walking them up the steps. My family was firmly middle class and while we vacationed every year, we often stayed at motels on the beach or reasonably-priced Holiday Inns or Marriotts. The Fairmont had just taken ownership of the Royal York in Toronto and it sparkled with grandeur. I remember thinking it was the most wonderful hotel I'd ever seen inside and peered up at the architectural details in the lobby and grinned giddily when they offered me a key to a room.

+8
I so desperately wanted to take off my flip flops. It generally seems endless to me - that journey from the plane to immigration - especially after long flights (which this one was not, but bear with me while I whine). So I flipped and flopped my way along long corridors and past many doorways until I reached the border agent.

I laughed when he asked why I'd want to go to a conference. "It's for business," I replied, "though there are great people and interesting science too."

We sped away from the airport in a cab, reaching downtown when I waved to my colleague as he went to another hotel, leaving me at the Fairmont once again. While it's not the nicest hotel I've ever visited, the rooms are generously sized and the service is excellent.

"I'm so sick," I told reception at 5AM today, having been up since 4 and throwing up since 4:15. "I need Tylenol PM - it's the only thing that works when I'm vomiting and have a migraine."

"The convenience store is closed in the hotel," she replied regretfully. "But we can go across town to get some from the pharmacy."

"Yes. Please. Hurry," I replied, hanging up the bathroom phone to heave painfully once again.

"The bellman is on his way up," she reported after an excruciating 30 minutes when I sat up from my nest of towels on the bathroom floor, her voice gentle. I thanked her and slipped into a robe, having thrown up on my only pair of sleepy pants, and shuffled to the door to take the bag and swallow 2 Tylenol and a Unisom (apparently Canada doesn't believe in Tylenol PM).

Prayer answered, it stayed down and I was soon asleep with a last grateful thought to some lovely people who work at the Fairmont.

-8
I moved into the room, unpacked, and stared out the window at the building across the street. Carrie arrived and I tried to mimic her nonplussed attitude about our surroundings, blinking when she immediate called for more hangers and extra pillows and asking if I wanted room service. We giggled and talked and arranged our various things and she frowned at the sound of the elevator dinging when it reached our floor - our room was not far from the bank of lifts. I, however, remained positively charmed, eager to walk the city and attend the conference and learn wonderful things.

I learned so much at that meeting. Watched in awe as people whose papers I read walked by as if they weren't spectacularly brilliant and famous. Presented my poster with nervous terror, praying nobody would ask me a difficult question as I fussed with my 3rd nice outfit so carefully selected from a closet full of jeans and sweatshirts. Carrie and I took a boat ride on the lake. I went drinking with the boys one night and felt so terribly grown up and worldly as we walked/stumbled down the streets of Tornoto toward our gorgeous hotel.

+8
I walked home from a late dinner last night - pre-horrible-sickness - with colleagues I like and respect. I greeted collaborators and hugged coworkers throughout the day, accepting their offers to fetch me water or pills or told me to sit down. I listened to requests and offered explanations. I answered questions and took notes on emails to send or presentations to make. I was busy and productive and happy, even as my hands shook and I winced against the lingering headache.

I watched the young ones walk around, look at posters, peer into meeting rooms. I honestly don't envy them for it's not an easy road to get from there to here - to lose some of that naive confidence and build some with a more solid foundation. To realize there's no shame in asking questions or admitting ignorance because it allows for growth and knowledge. To find your balance - at least sometimes - professionally and personally. And while I wouldn't do it over, I also wouldn't give it up - that path I've taken. I've loved people and learned things and gone places. And it's fun to dig out pictures and recall those trips, even as they differ from this one.

Belly Breathing

"Well," he said, leaning into me and keeping pressure on my back with his forearm, "you get a gold star. I've done this for 20 years and don't remember the last time I felt anyone this tight." I laughed for a moment, breathing and trying to relax as I pressed my face into the cradle and wanted to purr with pleasure.

"Are you familiar with the concept of body armoring?" he asked, pressing and kneading and coaxing muscles to release their tension. When I said I had not, he explained that there are some theories that indicate muscles retain memory of trauma and cause chronic pain or discomfort.

"Like," he explained, "when a lion attacks a zebra. The zebra can fight, flee or freeze." Sure he was going to say 'fornicate' I scolded myself before continuing to listen. "And if the lion decides he's not hungry after all and releases the zebra, it plays dead. And after the lion leaves, it shakes itself off and goes on about its life. But we're not as good as shaking it off - we remember those times we were afraid and embarrassed or angry and our body absorbs that and can't seem to release it. Are you anxious?"

"Always," I replied, whimpering when he worked on my neck, calling a muscle 'squirrelly' when it refused to smooth into its friends, twanging like a giant band against the strokes and pressure. "And sad. I take pills."

"Does it feel like a constant conversation in your head?" he asked and I thought about it while he worked at my shoulder.

"It's not as bad as it was," I told him. "During my post-doc, I was very depressed and the sadness just drowned everything else. The anxiety and depression aren't nearly as bad as they were now that I'm medicated. So it's more like a low-level hum in the background."

"That's as much as I can get this time," he decided and had me turn over. He started on my shoulders again as I listened to the soothing music he played and the playing children at the playground outside. "Your body remembers all that pain," he said. "You want to let that go and wear your body more comfortably."

"My body just carries around my brain," I told him.

"So you don't like it," he clarified.

"Not really, I guess," I replied. "I remember I used to get terrible cramps growing up - stomach pain - and so I dissociated from it. It was happening to my body but not really connected to me. And now I just ignore it mostly - I don't like headaches or shoulder problems because they're close to my brain. But the farther the pain is from my head, the better I feel about it."

He made a sound of understanding.

"Plus, if you're talking about therapy, I was bad at it. It just hurt - I cried and ached and it didn't really change much. I like the drugs. Prozac, some anti-anxiety pill I take when I need it. Advil for headaches, Tylenol for other pain. Melatonin to sleep. Nyquil when I'm stuffy or coughing. Chemicals are awesome."

He warned me about Advil on an empty stomach, making me frown with stories of a friend who threw up blood. I sighed when he finished his story and he placed a hand on my collarbone.

"Do you feel how your chest moves when you sigh?" he asked and I blinked my eyes open to look at him.

"I guess," I replied, having never thought about it.

"Good, soothing breaths come from here," he instructed, touching my tummy. "Try to move my hand." After focusing as hard as I could, I was unable to breathe with my belly so I shrugged and nudged at his hand with mine. He grinned at me and demonstrated a proper breath, nodding encouragingly when I tried to mimic the inhale and longer exhale through the nose.

"Now try again - not from your chest but from your diaphragm."

"Ow," I protested for the first time in our session when he pressed gently below my breasts. I rubbed at the spot - it was viciously sore - and he looked at me calmly. "I put all the pressure I could on your back and you didn't make a peep. And you can't tolerate any pressure at all there?"

"Is that not normal?" I asked. "I always assumed everyone hurt there - like when my cat steps on me and it's a sharp, stabbing pain. Not everyone does that?"

"No," he replied simply. "Your system is all kinds of knotted up. This will be a craniosacral pressure. Breathe," he instructed and with a hand behind my back, gently nudged at my diaphragm with two fingers while I made faces at the ceiling.

"When you breathe properly, it's like a massage for your organs. They shift and nudge against each other and everything is flexible and fluid."

"OK," I said, wincing, "well, they appear to be scraping against each other now because this is unpleasant."

"We're done for now," he said and left the room so I could dress. I emerged a moment later, still rubbing just above my tummy and cocking my head at him.

"I'd like to come back," I said, feeling somehow peaceful and hopeful that he might be able to quiet my mind and ease the constant pressure and pain in my body. "What would you recommend?"

"For you? Right now? Every week," he offered. "And you need to breathe - lie down on your back and put a small weight on your belly and try to move the book. 10 minutes a day. And be aware of your body - just in small ways. Sit up straight so your shoulders don't ache. Drink more water. Take more walks. Something small so that you can begin your healing journey."

And while I normally eschew woo-woo approaches for chemicals in candy-coatings, I'm clear that my current operating mechanisms are ineffective. So let's try deep breathing and craniosacral massage and blending mental and physical therapy from a holistic center. I'll let you know how it goes.

Happy Heart

I do not enjoy talking to Dad on the phone. He tells the same stories. And they're not interesting. And sometimes they're judgmental and mean. They're often boring. So I admit to sighing when he calls to check in since he does like to use his cell. It makes him feel important.

I find it lovely how happy I've been to speak to him this week. How closely I listen to the tone of his voice and pace of his words. So whether we discuss cardiac rehabilitation or Seal Team 6 or how Smallest wants him to come home right now, my heart feels happy when I get to hear his voice and know what he's thinking.

He has been thinking - mostly - that he wants to go home. As does Mom, who has been sleeping on a roll-away bed with a bad pillow and thin blanket. But it makes my heart happy to hear how grateful she is that he's OK. To know she wants him around, even though he's sometimes frustrating and annoying and tiresome. It's just very sweet.

So I call. On my way to work at 7AM. Again after a meeting ends at 10:55. On my way home after work. And before 9PM so I can make sure all is well before they go to sleep. And my 'way home' call was preempted by news that they were home. And happy. And healthy for now.

The hell of chronic diseases - and so many of ours are, living as we do in developed societies - is that they're coming back. You can battle and manage symptoms and prevent the worst of episodes, but, if you live long enough, the likelihood increases that the same old problems will reappear.

So I'm sure I'll eventually return to wincing when Dad calls and I'd rather be doing something else. But for now, I smile at the sound of his voice.

Up-da(d)-te

The windows creaked against the whoosh of the wind inside my pretty, old church. I sat one pew from the back and greeted the pastor with a weak smile.

"I've been a little lost for a while," I confessed and watched him frown with concern. "But I'd like you to pray. For my dad. He's having an emergency heart procedure done now."

I nodded when he confirmed that it was happening as we read bulletins and listened to the prelude and told him Dad's name. He patted my hand in comfort and I watched the sun stream through the eastern windows and sparkle on the blue and yellow glass. I watched the lilies as they perched elegantly around the sanctuary and kept my thumb on the 'answer' button of my Blackberry throughout the service.

"He's going in now," Mom had said, her voice quivering, at 9:30AM.

"I'm going to church," I told her. "I'll pray and keep my phone on - call me when you know something."

And when Pastor was still talking about doubting Thomas at 10:25, I felt my hands tremble as they clutched my phone. Placing stents is common and not all that difficult (I've heard) - it should not have taken an hour. I had comforted myself that we'd be fine when I thought of the Smallest One and my heart ached. "Please don't take him," I asked God silently. "Not now. Not yet." And blessed Pastor for praying for Dad first when it was time for concerns of the congregation.

I left my phone on the pew when we approached the altar for communion. I needed it - the sense of renewal, connection, tradition, comfort. And that was when I missed the call.

Taste of wine lingering on my tongue, I scampered outside as I dialed my family. The wind blew hair around face and skirt around legs as exited the side door and heard Brother say that Dad was fine. I sat on the front steps made of stone, between two patches of happy daffodils, when he said one artery had closed completely once again. So he had, in fact, been having mild heart attacks for at least a couple of days.

"But they put a new stent above the old one," Brother said. "And said he'd take blood thinners for another day or two and then go back on the typical dose."

I nodded, grateful and overwhelmed and relieved. And I wept when Brother handed off the phone.

"Hi, Daddy," I said, hoping the wind would sweep away any quivers in my voice. "You're all fixed up now?"

"Yeah," he replied, voice sounding higher than normal - tired and fragile and beloved. "My artery was blocked again."

"I heard," I replied, wishing I could squeeze his hand. "But they fixed it."

"Yeah," he agreed. "I can't sit up for 3 hours," he parroted his instructions. "But I'm going to be fine."

"I think so," he said after a moment when I asked if the pain was gone. "I let them give me the sissy medicine - the stuff that relaxes me."

"Good," I praised, not even rolling my eyes at the drug identification. "We prayed for you at church. You were first."

"That's good," he said. "I'm just tired now. And I can't sit up for 3 hours. But I'm going to be fine." After agreeing that we were both glad he was OK and loved each other a lot, we bid farewell and I sobbed when hearing him ask who wanted to talk next. Because that happens every time - short calls or long, when I'm at work or home or abroad. He never hangs up without making sure there's not someone else waiting their turn. And it's the little things that sometimes capture my emotional balance.

"Do you want me to come home?" I asked Brother when I heard his voice.

"You can," he said, "but I got this." And so, after talking with Mom a bit later, I've decided that they're OK without me for now. Dad has "a few days" to stay at the hospital - nobody's able to tell me what they're planning to monitor, but everyone sounds relieved. So Dad will rest - no ventilator, just rest - and Mom will fuss and make phone calls and Brother will - hopefully - be the good child who helps and solves problems and calls doctors mediocre if need be.

But we're fine.

Thank you.

Sunday in Spring

"Let's go see the flowers," I told my hound after I'd had coffee, taken a shower and emptied the dishwasher and the new email from my inbox. There are a bright bunch of daffodils sunning themselves at the entry of our subdivision. And I wanted to take a photo of the flowers.

The sun shined. There was a cool breeze. And I felt peaceful as we moved briskly through the morning. I scolded Chienne when she stepped in people's lawns - I have a rule against such things and she tests me some mornings, tossing a one-eyed glare over her shoulder when I object and tug on her leash.

Still, it was - it is - springtime. Hopeful and quiet and pretty.

I returned to the house and grabbed a bottle of water to sip after blowing my nose. The wind has quieted from its gusts of yesterday but still blows the freshly-cut grass and wisps of pollen, making my eyes itch and nose run. It's a price I'm happy to pay for opening the house, letting the fresh air in.

"Hello," I answered the phone cheerfully, seeing my father's full name appear on the corner of my television screen. Tired of the news, I switched to reruns of Law & Order. I smiled upon hearing Mom's voice - I'd complained bitterly yesterday of how pointless my job was, how I wasn't sure how to be happier. But prayer and exercise and a beautiful day had raised my spirits - I felt more stable and capable today.

"We're at the hospital," she told me gently and I blinked, smile falling from my face as I stared at the television without seeing it. "Your dad was having pain last night - back pain - so we came in at 1:30 this morning."

She paused because I always have questions - specific requests for information delivered in order of importance - but I couldn't think. Images - emotions - flashed quickly. Sobbing in Uncle's arms outside the waiting room of the cath lab my last year of college. Having Brother insist that we call Dad's brother to tell him. Mom asking bad questions when I wanted our liason to return to the procedure - to return if there was more urgent news than which area was blocked or where the stents were going.

"His EKGs are mostly normal," Mom continued when I didn't speak. "And his enzymes were just a little off when they last checked. So they're not sure if it's his heart or just back pain. We're waiting for the cardiologist now, but they are planning to admit him. The girl just came in and said so."

I shook my head, trying to jostle my brain into processing the information. "I," I paused, still trying to think, "Should I come home?" I asked my mother.

"I don't think so," she replied thoughtfully. "It's all pretty routine - not like last time."

"Do you have a private room?" I asked, wincing while I wondered what the hell difference it made. And nodding when she said they were still in the ER. That Dad had been in too much pain to rest and that she'd used her sweatshirt as a pillow.

"Brother is going to work," she told me and I nodded - my younger sibling is not good at hospitals. "But we expect we won't be here more than a day - we'll figure out what this is and they'll go in and fix it."

"Of course," I agreed. "Will you tell him I love him?"

"You can talk to him," she said and handed the phone to my father.

"Hi," I echoed and sat silently, picturing him in bed with the wires and tubes and remembering timing by breath to his on the ventilator years ago.

"I'm fine," I replied when he asked. "We took a walk. To look at the flowers. Chienne was a bad dog. But I'm fine. How are you?"

"I hurt," he admitted and I asked why the morphine hadn't worked. "I don't know," he sighed and I heard him shift positions. "They said it was a mild dose - I guess they didn't give me enough."

"Oh," I murmured softly. "That surprises me. But maybe they need to know about the pain so they can fix it."

"Yeah, maybe." His voice was quiet. Tired. Docile. "They're just going to bleed the insurance company for a while and then I'll get to go home."

I huffed a false chuckle and said that was OK. He agreed and echoed my I love you. And so I keep my cell phone on and still plan to attend church in search of peace and prayers. I sent a note to a colleague requesting the latter and felt tears well. But I blinked them back - am blinking them back now - because we'll be OK.

Still. Please pray.

Q & A

Want to know something bad?

I spent a few hours playing Avenue Flo Special Delivery this evening.

Want to know something worse?

I was unable to find all the balloons in a game that must be geared for elementary students and cheated online so I could finish and help Quinn throw Vicki a baby shower. (To be fair, I only had trouble finding stuff - the 20th glass bottle at the beginning, balloons 29-33 on the last level.

Want to know why?

I decided yesterday, rather sick of myself, that I was going to stop some bad habits and keep myself distracted from them. So today I took a long walk. I mowed my lawn and whacked my weeds. I read a book. Listened to music. And decided to play a non-stressful (well, mostly - I did get frustrated with not finding the damn balloons) game to pass the time.

Why not work?

I'm struggling with it. The hours of effort for so little progress. The countless problems without solutions. And, honestly, I'm not that busy - I'd rather I had more projects that gave me a false sense of purpose than this extra time in which I consider the futility of my current position.

And dating?

I believe I could be mildly addicted to infatuation. The breathless wonder of getting to know someone new - of wanting to know random details and meaningless thoughts, just because this new person is so very compelling. So I'm avoiding the dating sites because I feel I was frequenting them too often of late - starting to feel a slightly desperate edge to the search of someone who might save me from myself. And that's not a place I want to exist, let alone one to indulge. So I do believe the dating is hitting a lull.

Ah. So it's a spiritual kick then, is it?

Indeed. When locked in despair and panic last night, I prayed. And finally felt peaceful. Vaguely hopeful but more peaceful. So it's back to church I go tomorrow - to sing and pray and learn. In the hope that I find my balance and a path to something more... Well, something more.

So. How've you been?

Hussy...

In a puppy suit
I was not well today, whimpering in pain as my digestive system convulsed dramatically. I was 70% sure I had vomit on the shirt I'd dropped on the floor in disgust, curling up with pillows and remaining perfectly still so as not to jostle my aching head.

Chienne stayed nearby, staring at me with her somber brown eye, as she sat outside the bathroom door and hopped on the bed, arranging herself carefully behind my knees and lending solid warmth against my shivers.

She would lift her chin from where it rested on my ankle when I moved fitfully, seeking a more comfortable resting spot, and would settle again when I did, my faithful hound curling close once again.

As I'd planned to be traveling today, I'd asked the girl down the street to check on my pets and had left her a note that I wasn't feeling well but it'd be great if she could still take Chienne out. I heard the garage door rumble open when I was in the master bathroom - one of the closer 2nd-floor rooms to the garage. I stumbled back to bed and flopped on my back, watching as my aging puppy perked immediately upon hearing her name. Ears up, muscles ready, her tail wagged twice before she leaped from the bed and raced downstairs to meet her visitor.

"Hussy," I accused her softly when she returned, having completed her abandonment outing and returning to bed, cold and happy from being outside. And I patted her head and smoothed her coat and winced as she found a comfortable spot and set to watching over me once again.

In a Katie suit
"My Aunt Katie has four bathrooms," Smallest was saying when I crossed the street to check on her last week. One of the older neighbor girls was pushing her on the swing set in their backyard. "And, and a huge bathtub! But I don't like when you push the button - it makes lots of bubbles and I don't like it."

She waved and said she was fine when I called to her. I sent an inquisitive look to the neighbor girls and they confirmed she was doing well. So, Little's hand in mind, we crossed back to my side of the street and continued to draw on the driveway.

"My Aunt Katie goes to Spain," I heard Smallest say as they rolled a ball on the driveway. "And Japan. I get postcards and toys."

"Aunt Katie," Smallest shouted. I waved in response and sputtered with laughter when she asked if I had a boyfriend.

"Not really," I replied and shook my head when I realized the girls across the street were ideally positioned to watch the men who picked me up for dinner or came inside to spend a few hours in the last 6 months or so. "I'm not slutty," I wanted to call, just to clarify. "Well, maybe a little slutty," I decided and didn't say anything at all.

"I dated a couple - well, 3 - guys," I told Little One more quietly, her big, brown eyes curious and attentive. "It was actually 5 if you count everything. Anyway, they were very nice and I liked them but it didn't work out for various reasons." I glanced up to see her lips curve before she asked a question that made me choke on giggles again. "No," I replied, cheeks still scrunched toward my eyes in my biggest of smiles. "None of them looked much like Justin Bieber."

"Do you think you will date anyone who looks like him?" she asked, giggling.

"I really hope not," I teased and brushed the hair from her face. "But there is a guy I like - I don't know what will happen."

Still, even if nothing comes of it, I hear I have lipstick, high heels and pretty necklaces. So all is not lost.

In a Sprout suit
I sometimes pity the stripey cat. Easily started and mostly solitary, he screws with Chienne enough that she kind of hates him and the dog has mandated that he not be on my bed while she is sleeping there.

Therefore, when he does find me alone - which isn't infrequent - he demands constant attention. Putting all his hefty weight on two dainty paws that are bruising my tummy. Butting at my hands and arms when I type or reach for my water because he wants pets. Curling up and shedding all over my laptop because it's warm and seems to be capturing the attention that is rightfully his.

Still, he's a pretty guy and he is deprived of attention so I generally pause and arrange him on a pillow on my lap, offering strokes and compliments while he purrs. And then I generally realize that his food dish is empty and, with a final pat, I rise to scoop out more kibble.

I started to keep track of when he came to see me for love rather than food and so far the tally is zero. None.

Hussy, stripey cat.

You Don't Know Jack

"I'm sad," I replied when my massage therapist when she came to fetch me from the lounge. She frowned at me, expecting a complaint about my neck and shoulders and I took a last sip of my green tea, nudging the slice of lemon off the rim and into the hot water. It floated next to the plump pillow of tea leaves and I stared at it for a moment before directing my attention back to her.

"OK," I offered when she said she was ready when I was. I slowly stood, readjusted my robe and shuffled down the hallway behind her. I nodded at the typical instructions and thanked her as she left the room, moving to hang my robe on the back of the door and arranging myself, prone on the table, to await her return.

"I like the peppermint," I confirmed when she returned and asked about aromas. A little sharp, a bit sweet, completely comforting. And I took deep breaths and tried to focus on relaxing my muscles.

I like a boy. A man. We shall call him Jack as it could be my favorite of masculine monikers. And I like him - find him interesting and funny, sexy and challenging. We've corresponded for months now and he calls me Kate. As though I am somehow different and special in my interactions with him. And I do feel different - braver, perhaps.

Given my affection for him - that he makes me laugh and shiver and feel both distracted and sexy - it seemed natural to send him a note when I struggled this morning. I'm better at fending off verbal attacks - even those that include pretty vicious cursing and yelling - and remaining somewhat dignified.

And I did hold it together, blinking and nodding at the harshest of moments and enduring until it was done. It helped - a little - that it wasn't my fault. It bothered me - more than a little - that there was nothing I could do to change the situation. I hate failing - professionally and personally - but it sometimes happens.

And you know when you feel bad - lost and alone and sad - and you want someone? Sometimes a general someone will do, but others it's a specifically focused need and in that moment, I wanted Jack.

And ignoring more than forgetting that he wasn't mine, I sent a note at 9:30 this morning and mentioned my horrible day.

And in the hours that passed between email and reply, I grew increasingly morose. Increasingly withdrawn. And exponentially more ashamed that I'd contacted him at all.

Given that there's no shame (or shouldn't be) in needing a friend when feeling awful, I made a mental note to take an extra half-dose of anti-depressant tonight. But it seems I've fallen for someone who - despite a quick 'sorry' email - doesn't seem to want to know me. Which can be sexy and fun but it isn't very Katie.

So as she worked on my thighs and calves, feet and toes, I realized I want to have someone. For there to be sex and conversation and quick emails and long phone calls when we're not in the same place at the same time. I want to learn every little thing about him and not feel intrusive when doing so. And I don't want to be ignored. I so hate being ignored.

And so when he accused me of shutting him out in a later email, I couldn't really deny it. Though I don't want to withdraw from him, I decided as she rubbed my hands and arms, shoulders and scalp. And when the 90 minutes was over, I bundled back into my robe and changed back into clothes and returned home to take another conference call while smelling of peppermint.

As I settled here in the darkness, wishing it were time for bed, I don't know how to be completely self-sufficient. To not notice when I don't hear from him. To not want more than what is. Which means that I also don't know Jack. And though I hope that changes, it feels pretty hopeless tonight.

(Poor introduction to a very cool guy - remind me to tell you more about him when I'm not all blah.)

Glue

It occurred to me while folding clothes from the dryer that I liked having a separate pile. That my sweaters and dress pants, t-shirts and pajamas were a stack of soft layers to the left while my family's clothes formed a haphazard pile on the right. I smiled at tiny socks and adorable shirts but had no desire to mix them with my belongings. And after I gave hugs and kisses and waved good-bye, I put toys and games in my ottoman that serves as storage and returned to my life.

I love them - so, so much - but there are moments where I have this certainty that an ever-present family is not what I want. The arguments and exhaustion. The complaints and needs, fetching/carrying/wiping/entertaining. Goodness. Which explained why I was taking a break in the quiet basement to fold laundry.

Still, I returned with a laptop and played the Glee Cast version of Teenage Dream for my nieces. Because I like it better than the original.

"I like," Smallest One said, never one to shy away from an opinion, "the Stuck Like Glue song." I nodded and began to search for it online while Smallest frowned impatiently. She sighed. Then tapped my arm none too gently. "Play It," she ordered and I grinned.

"I don't have it, love," I replied. "I need to find it and buy it for you. Then," I decided, inspired, "we'll burn CDs so you can play it at home!" Her eyes rounded with delight and she began to bounce and dance when the downloaded song began to play.

"How do I turn it up?" she asked, still wiggling and "wuh oh, wuh oh"ing and I pointed to the button with a giggle. Despite reaching the maximum level, she continued to want more, jabbing at the volume button as she sang with increasing volume herself.

So they took turns picking songs they liked to transfer to blank CDs (I may have already owned some of their favored music - but I confirm nothing.) and when I suggested to Smallest that her portable movie player might provide music, she went to fetch it despite her grandfather's objection that it only played DVDs.

It did, of course, play CDs and it played them ear-numbingly loud. I got the giggles as Little plugged her ears and Smallest's shoulders lifted dramatically as she shouted along with the music. "I like this song!" she'd cry each time a new one began and I'd nod, wincing at the volume for a moment before admiring once again her utter joy at life in general. She's a character.

"Her motto," Brother pointed out when he called to check in as the music blasted in the background, "is 'If it's too loud, you're too old." And I laughed and nodded, watching his youngest spin in circles.

"She's surrounded by people who are too old then," I decided. "And likely always will be." And I spent a moment in worry for her.

"Aunt Katie," Little One said, waiting until she had my attention before handing me a bottle of Elmer's glue, "open this, please." So I frowned down at the familiar orange top, using the edge of my fingernail to chip away the dried glue before twisting it open and returning it to her. "Do you like blue or yellow?" she asked, selecting a set of wings for the toilet-paper-roll body covered in pink construction paper.

"Yellow, I think," I decided after a moment's thought, watching her face scrunch in concentration as she drew a line of glue and pressed the two pieces together, waiting for them to dry into the semblance of a butterfly.

She's a gentle soul, sensitive and dramatic as can be. She'll duck her head when someone says she's beautiful while her younger sister is more likely to say "I know!" when offered a similar compliment. And she whimpers while she sleeps, causing me to roll over and peer over pillows to tuck the blankets more securely around her pale arms or smooth her hair while quietly telling her she's OK - safe and loved and sleepy.

She's also a bossy know-it-all, ordering her sister about until Smallest turns to hit her. She has a small unkind streak, making fun of those who are different at school and looking rather crushed when corrected. She thinks before replying sometimes, calculating what we might want to hear rather than articulating what she really thinks. And I spend a moment in worry for her.

I know not how to create good global citizens. I can buy presents and dab lips with napkins. I can love them to pieces and scold when they walk in the street without looking. I can watch movies and find blankets and soothe them while they sleep. But, as always, I'll admit to a sense of bittersweet relief when taking my laundry upstairs and placing theirs in suitcases before helping to load the car.

I love what I have - two wonderful girls who love me and come visit and talk to me on the phone. And I love the amount of "mine" they are - just enough but not completely. And, for the next little while, a few hours away once again.

Original

I used to go to the mall - Northwoods - when I was little. My grandparents would take me and I'd toddle along beside them, hand elevated to hold one of theirs while we walked and looked and smiled at people.

There was a fountain on one end - right in front of the toy store - and it had lights that glimmered beneath the flowing water. I would always ask for pennies to toss - making wishes as I stood on the bottom railing of the barrier around the water and rested my chin on the top one. We'd ride the escalators among the smaller shops and I was always allowed to push the buttons on the elevators in the department stores. And I always left with something - typically a stuffed animal - clutched in a tiny hand.

Nearly 30 years later, I tagged along as the next generation repeated the same activity, sitting between the Ones as we drove to a mall near my house. We parked the van and wandered inside, small hands lifted to hold both of mine, and looked around at the shops before deciding to go downstairs.

"I don't ride escalators," Little One said before she and her grandma began to descend the stairs. Smallest One, Grandpa and I rode the escalator, her tiny hand still in mine, before moving toward the playground tucked in a corner. The took off shoes and ran on the bouncy carpeted surface, waiting patiently to climb the steps to go down the slide until I offered a rather impatient glance at the woman whose daughter was blocking their way for a good 2 minutes. Once she was removed, fun was had by all with the slide and the climbing and the crawling through tunnels.

Instead of pennies in a fountain, I fed quarters into machines that played music and gently moved various cars so that Smallest One could play pretend. As I decided between vanilla and chocolate at her ice cream truck, I swiped my credit card so Little One could get a juice and finally coaxed the elder to prance along while nearly dragging the younger away from the one of four toys she'd not ridden.

The child wants everything. A chance at the claw to uselessly pluck at a stuffed animal. Her own juice. Ice cream. Cookies. A picture with the Easter Bunny.

To the latter we agreed and I smiled as she charged up to the rabbit and said hello, offering that she was 3 and her favorite color was green before climbing up on the seat next to him. My mom spoke to Little One, encouraging her to move closer to the costumed creature and promising he wouldn't touch her or look at her or even lean any closer. She mustered her courage - this grown-up version of the first baby I ever loved - and edged just into the frame of the photo, out of reach of the terrifying bunny and clutching her grandmother's hand.

"Look happy," I encouraged and Smallest One grinned widely as Little One's lips curved as well. And after two quick snaps, we had photos to approve as Little One took a wide berth around the bunny with no small amount of pride that she'd braved one of her biggest phobias. (Humans dressed as animals.) Photo package in hand, we exchanged a swimsuit - our stated purpose for the expedition - and debated toys before each selected one.

I smoothed Little One's hair as we were seated for lunch, smiling as she read me part of her menu and telling her she was learning so much at school. I remember reading to my grandma, going to fetch books from the closet in the hallway and curling up next to her as we worked through Heidi before naptimes. And I smiled as I looked around the table, loving all of them rather desperately, and felt a sharp pang when considering that they'll lose my parents as I lost my grandparents.

Still, pain and loss seemed far away as we sipped milkshakes and selected balloons. "My favorite color is green," Smallest One noted to our waitress before asking her to please return with a balloon.

We had later settled on my driveway, enjoying the sunshine and coloring with chalk while my parents did some shopping. When the kids across the street came home from school, there were soccer balls and noise and games which Little One and I mostly ignored. Smallest One, however, watched with open curiosity and beamed when the much-older girls called to ask if they wanted to play.

"I do!" Smallest One called after consulting with her sister. "I have to ask my Aunt Katie but I want to come over and play!" She looked at me and smiled beautifully. "Aunt Katie," she said as though I hadn't heard her, "those girls asked me to play and I want to go."

"You want to go?" I confirmed, thinking they were older and seemed very cool and I'd probably be nervous to go over and play with strangers. And I'm an order of magnitude older than she is.

"Yes!" she replied, bouncing with excitement. "They asked me and they're so nice! So I will go over there."

"I will help you cross the street," I replied, loathe to transfer any of my anti-social tendencies to the happy little girl who bubbled with eager friendliness. So we crossed the street and she was welcomed to the small group while I returned to her sister and continued our art project. I kept an eye on her as she chattered with her new friends, telling them about her visit to Aunt Katie's and her sister and mom and dad and grandma and grandpa. And Chienne and Sprout and her cat at home. And I admired - ever so much - her confidence and sheer force of her tiny personality. Even as I better identify with her older sister as she plays pretend and fusses with toys and quietly reads her stories.

The two of us invited Grandpa to join us for dinner while Smallest and Grandma made it an early evening. We had appetizers and drinks - a little slushy for Little that turned her mouth blue - and talked. And when she was cold, I unzipped my sweatshirt and draped it over her shoulders, shaking my head when she refused to relinquish it and wrapped the familiar fabric around her tiny frame. It fell to her knees as she climbed in the back seat of the Jeep and I kissed her cheek before closing the door behind her.

Petite

"Hi!" I cried, emerging from my car and scooping Little One into my arms for a 'welcome to Aunt Katie's house!' cuddle. "Oh, I missed you," I murmured, rubbing the back of her puffy coat and burying my face in her hair.

"We found the eggs and presents," she told me, offering a smile before cuddling close again. I hugged her tighter and smiled, thinking of shuffling through the house last night and placing 50 eggs filled with candy and PlayDoh and bubbles on windowsills and shelves, in corners and under furniture. There were Barbies in the sinks upstairs and Webkinz on the kitchen table with the sidewalk chalk. And I ordered personalized maps online that I left in the dining room.

I buy things so people will like me.

And it works, I decided as Smallest One came out the door, face brightening in a silly grin as she reached for me and began to chatter about the picture she drew ("it's very pretty") and eggs she found ("on the stairs and by the couch and in the cloud room and by the plants") and how she was at Aunt Katie's house! I listened and nodded as I held her close, helping her into her puffy green jacket against the gloomy, chilly afternoon.

We took a walk, Chienne out front and small girls at each side and my parents trailing behind. I turned my head from side to side, listening to their simultaneous stories and nodding to taps on my arm or squeezes of my hand when I didn't reply with suitable speed. I learned about school and gymnastics and a play and recital. Soccer and their cat and what they wanted to do during the visit.

We went for lunch and I sat between them, grinning at the thought that it was now more a privledge than a chore. I do like children, but I don't love drool or messes or other dining grossness. And I always ended up icky after meals with them - sticky or stained - and wrinkled my nose a bit. But they are, at 6.5 and 3.5, quite self suffient and neat. So Smallest had macaroni and cheese with grapes and Little decided on a cheese pizza. And apart from a couple dabs of a napkin or help rolling up sleeves, it was just like dining with tiny yet perfectly wonderful friends.

We came home to play outside, bundled against the cold even as we engaged in springtime activies - blowing bubbles, drawing pictures with chalk, chasing tennis balls with the dog. Then we came upstairs to play before bathtime. Little One gravitates toward my closet, trying on shoes and pulling dresses from hangers that drape past her ankles.

"Here," I suggested when she stumbled over another dress. "Let's go strapless with one of my skirts." And I gathered extra fabric in a tiny clip when she emerged with the slip of white dotted with blue flowers flowing around her. "You're so pretty," I sighed, smoothing her hair and admiring eyes that look like mine. She plucked a scarf from a drawer and tied it about her neck. And she looked so elegant and grown up for a moment, turning to assess her reflection that I thought she was so full of promise and personality.

Smallest One emerged behind her sister, dancing around in one of my bras and I giggled at her, thinking her full of a rather different sort of personality. She has little of the quiet beauty of her sister but is stunning in her wit and daring, demanding attention and offering comments and throwing tantrums in the rare instance where she doesn't get her way.

"I do not have huge boobs," I replied to Smallest One's comment, teasingly indignant. "And that's a perfectly nice bra," I decided of the white fabric. We played and laughed and made butterflies from toilet paper rolls.

"Girls," I offered a couple hours later. "I need to take a call for work. So can we play quietly now?" They agreed, hesitant to leave the room where I was and I felt a moment's guilt that I don't spend enough time with them. But I dialed the number and reclined on my pillows, focused mostly on my colleagues but keeping an eye on nieces prone to squabbles.

I nodded when Little One asked if she could play with the other phone in my room - it's Pottery Barn and very pretty but not currently plugged in. So she and Smallest took turns pushing buttons and holding the receiver to small ears.

"It's my turn to talk to work," Little One said, reaching for the phone and beginning to discuss schedules.

"I need to call work next," Smallest One demanded, folding her arms impatiently.

And I wanted to cover them with kisses for wanting to be like me - I was so honored that they want to wear my clothes and share components of my life and like coming to where I live. I'm not sure I'm the greatest of role models but there are pieces of who I am and what I do that are good. That could fit into what they see from the other women in their lives and see where everything fits together.

I just love them so much. And think they're so wonderful. And can't wait to watch them continue to grow up.

I dig. He digs. We dug.

We ended up in a hole (both figuratively and literally) through no real fault of our own on the very first date.

Doug had invited me to meet for a quick and early dinner on a Wednesday evening last fall and suggested a bar nestled on the lakefront for our meeting. I arrived early - as I'd warned him I would do - and reminded myself that I need not be nervous. I was older and wiser than when I'd last dated years ago. I was calm and composed and, well, delightful, dammit. And if he didn't like me, that was fine - I was very happy with my life overall and there were other men with whom I was corresponding. And if I felt a bit sick and moved my car twice before convincing myself to go inside, well, we already know I'm neurotic.

I entered the bar upstairs to find it occupied by a private party and the bartender - a little wisp of a girl with long, auburn hair - smiled and motioned me downstairs to the lounge instead. I thanked her, sighed at the ease with which the party-goers interacted and laughed, and descended the steps with a feeling of dread. Blind dates are hard.

Cheered when I found a table by the window, I ordered (and paid for) a glass of white wine and took calming breaths while staring out at the chilly brick patio and lake beyond. I think I told Doug it was a nice place when he arrived a little later, taking a moment to think him rather cute as he shrugged out his puffy jacket and settled on the wooden stool across the tiny table. He ordered a soda and burger after asking if I wanted anything.

I demurred and he noted that he had a meeting at 7, temporally separated from us by no more than 90 minutes and spatially no more than 2 blocks. I recall being amused that I was being tucked into a small opening in his busy calendar, neatly on the way between work and his event that night. Still, I cocked my head curiously as I sipped wine and we chatted easily.

I'm shamefully experienced when it comes to blind dates and I normally predict their outcome. And all signals were pointing to vaguely uncomfortable and mostly disinterested for Doug. Little eye contact, vaguely evasive answers to some questions. And I looked up to smile at the pretty bartender from upstairs as she swept out the door behind Doug.

I blinked in surprise when he stopped her on her way back in from the patio. They talked about mutual acquaintances and I raised my eyebrows and smiled benignly when she glanced at me before tossing her hair. She directed a couple of comments in my direction and I nodded and smiled where appropriate, wholly unbothered by the interruption.

It happened once, maybe twice, more - she walked by and Doug stopped her to ask a question or exchange a few comments or jokes.

I was tickled by the end of the evening, having decided that he liked the lovely woman and perhaps was trying to get her attention by being seen with someone else. I wondered if I should tell him that someone like me would never bother someone like her - there is a reasonably clear ranking of who's desirable among females and she crushed me without effort on said spectrum. They would make a cute couple, I decided, having acquired a glass of water that I'd almost finished sipping.

It was raining outside when we departed, Doug hurrying to his divorce support group. I said I'd enjoyed meeting him - and I had as he was smart and focused and clearly loved his children - and waved before walking to my car and waiting for him to reverse and slip from the parking lot before I did.

"Silly," I said into the silence of the Jeep, unsure if I was referring to him or me or both. But I mentally closed the matter, expecting to never hear from him again, and idly wondered if he'd muster the nerve to pursue the bartender.

Instead - and hell if I can figure out why - he decided to pursue me. But that's a story for another day.

Bud, Bloom, Wither

"Oh," I sighed to a colleague as the man slouching at the podium lectured us severely. "I love him."

Said colleague raised an eyebrow in my direction and shook his head and I grinned while continuing to lust after he who emanated power and confidence, commanding attention simply by his force of personality. A PhysioProf sort of character, if that helps you - smart, funny, rather irritating and a little crude while being somehow oddly compelling. The type clearly isn't for everyone - and I always move past my little crushes - but that type generally makes me catch my breath, at least at first.

And so, upon deciding that I would identify my first lover and execute my sexual plan, I selected someone from a nearby city and we began to exchange emails. He was right, I decided, as fall fell and my birthday inched closer. Blatantly sexy, focused, confident and generally impatient with my inhibitions and excuses. He would push me past all of that nonsense and I'd have sex, decide if I liked it and then that would be that.

Friday morning, on the weekend I'd invited him to stay at my house for 2 days of erotic exploration, I took the dog on a lengthy walk through the neighboring woods. My mind wouldn't quiet - thinking back on my mother requesting that I not do it just to do it. That I feel something for this man and to be careful. I thought of regretting lost opportunities and getting older, rejecting the unknown when, later that very day, I would be knowing it. Still, I was worried and filled with a nervous energy that I tried to drown in wine as I waited for him to arrive.

Author's note: This post was written after he left that evening and is more explicit than I normally get. There wasn't intercourse but there was...stuff. And if you'd rather not know about said stuff in detail, let's catch each other on the next post.

Late October, 2010

I did not know his last name.

I did, however, learn his semen tasted a bit like ranch dressing and that giving oral sex to someone with whom you have little emotional connection is more interesting and clinical than sexy. (Is the penis not a fascinating organ? I mean, really, it's like nothing I have and I sincerely enjoy giving oral sex, despite the slight awkwardness of finding the proper position and my hair getting in the way.)

I was nervous, drinking 3 glasses of wine before he arrived, but excited after 2 weeks of sexy emails and chatting. He was cute - I loved his glasses and admired his stripey shirt out loud. After being shocked and appalled at Chienne's behavior (she is spoiled), he used the same firm tone with me and, once I obeyed his order to turn around, began to rub my back with firm pressure. I eventually relaxed, leaning into him a bit and grinned when he indicated I should return the favor. I chatted while rubbing his shoulders, scrunching the fabric of his shirt as a I stroked.

"I don't know what comes next," I admitted, blushing as he began to kiss my cheeks and neck, brushing my hair back to angle his head differently. When our lips touched, I reminded myself to part mine and felt his tongue lick my lips then touch my own. "What happens next is we go upstairs," he finally murmured softly and I nodded, gulping with nerves, head swimming from wine, before going to grab us bottles of water before leading him to my bedroom.

I kept trying to cuddle and cling as he removed my shirt and slipped my bra off. I nodded when he asked if he should undress, feeling uncertain and overwhelmed by the speed at which my brain was attempting to figure this out. I unbuttoned his shirt and watched him shrug out of it, then moved to press my bare breasts into his chest, still covered by a grey t-shirt. That eventually came off as well and I unfastened his jeans at his instruction, staring into his eyes when I removed his boxers, making a face when they caught on his erection.

I looked and touched, finding myself remarkably drawn to the heat and texture and hardness. When urged, I arranged myself and began to kiss, my head on his belly while I decided this angle worked quite well for me. With instruction, I stroked the shaft while exploring the head with my tongue, finding the spongey texture delightful even as the smell was a bit off-putting. I touched his balls, "gently," he urged and took them in my mouth after offering suckling kisses to the looser skin.

Even as I enjoyed the exploration - licking and sucking the head - the actual bobbing ("Start slowly," he advised, "while you figure out your sucking and stroking and breathing.") was tough. I leaned away for a moment and frowned - first at his cock and then into his eyes. "It's like learning to drive," I decided thoughtfully. "Not really hard, per se, but there's some coordination that's necessary."

"Keep sucking me," he replied and I giggled before returning to him, losing myself in the taste and warmth before reminding myself to stroke even as he smoothed my hair and told me to breathe through my nose. "There you go," he sighed and I felt him twitch, pleased even when I felt myself begin to slurp. This was rather sexy, I thought, though feeling his hand between my legs - still separated from my flesh by pants and panties - wasn't doing a lot for me.

"Do you want to swallow?" he asked and I nodded without removing my mouth. He was good - murmuring encouragement and pleasure nearly constantly - and I was curious. I removed my mouth for a moment to ask how and he breathed more heavily as he told me to keep sucking and to relax when I felt him coming at the back of my throat.

More accurately, it was the roof of my mouth (I think I had the angle wrong) and the taste was a bit...sharp? bitter? I don't know, but upon swallowing it, I did gag a little bit, removing my mouth and watching more of the white fluid appear on his head, reaching to smooth it into the shaft.

"I want to make you come," he said, eyelids heavy, and I swallowed again, wishing I could take a drink of water, and rested my head on his shoulder while I rubbed the hair he'd clearly trimmed on his chest.

"You didn't tell me your last name," I replied quietly and such was the beginning of the end. We didn't argue, exactly, but there was a quiet discussion after which we agreed to disagree.

"If I hooked up with someone on a business trip, I wouldn't ask where she did her undergrad while she was sucking my cock. Or what her hopes and dreams were while she was riding me."

"Sure," I replied, understanding what he was saying but not liking it. "But it's my first time. I want to feel..."

"What?" he prompted, rubbing my back as I lapsed into silence.

"I don't know," I said, apologizing to him. "Some sort of connection."

"You want to be in love," he stated and I shook my head.

"No," I confirmed my non-verbal response. "But I do want to feel wildly attracted and valued and special. And you don't want to know me. And this somehow changes me and I feel like... I don't know. Like I need you to understand that."

"It changes your vagina," he sighed, sounding impatient and shifting the focus of my irritating from myself to him.

"I don't agree," I said, sitting up and reaching for a pillow to hold to my chest, glaring down at him. Then I agreed that he should dress and go.

And so he want to the master bathroom and I went to the guest bathroom and we put on our clothes. He shook my hand and said good-bye before departing and leaving me feeling pleased I made a decision I trusted.

Said pleasure diminished as I sat with my neurotic dog on my brown loveseat, looking at my right hand and the ring that glittered on my middle finger as it rested on her head and thinking it had been wrapped around a stranger not 10 minutes ago. And I sighed, failure settling as the daylight disappeared into night outside my door.

"I didn't," I told Mom, for I knew she'd worry. "He's gone." And I smiled without meaning to as she sighed in relief. "It's not going to happen for me," I told her softly and tuned out her disagreement, took a shower and put on pajamas to curl up with my laptop.

It's not all bad though. That evening I propositioned Will to meet me for our first date and wrote to Doug to try to figure out what might happen with him. And more important lessons came from those men. This one, though, remains nameless. But not completely forgotten - such an afternoon does seem to deserve a blog post.