Sunday, April 24, 2016

10

I got you a phone for your birthday. Your face when we went to get it—oh, how I hope you hold onto that face. Pure, unchecked joy! Skipping. How we did a little dance in the parking lot. The dance of the first phones. I smiled with you, squeezed your hand because you still hold my hand when we walk together. Squeeze squeeze squeeze, how many more times do I have before your hand swings aimlessly next to me, not even noticing mine? The phone an opening to a world beyond being my daughter. Why did I get you a phone?
I got you a phone for your birthday because you know more about the California Missionaries than I do, because you can play Yellow Submarine on the guitar, because you hesitate before dropping in at the skateboard ramp, that hesitation sometimes stretching into minutes, the fear clinging to your face like a new skin. You are kind to your friends. You are kind to your not friends. Your tender heart shatters me the way possibility only can.

I got you a phone because you wrote me an essay telling me why I should get you a phone. You said that it would make you safer, that you would text me when you got places, call me if you had any problems. You said that we could chat throughout the day. You said that all your friends are getting a phone, but that is not why I got you a phone.

After we got you your phone we went to the grocery store to get ingredients to make you a cake. After I parked, I called you from the front seat, and you answered from the back seat. Hello? Hi, it's me. Hi! Both of us talking excitedly, shyly even, as if we had never spoken to each other before, the two feet between us a chasm of new. Later still I sent you a text when you were just down the hall in your bedroom, both of us fumbling to read who we were in those expectant gray dots...

I got you a phone for your birthday because you are right, you don't deserve everything, none of us do. I certainly don't deserve you, my 10 year old everything who teaches me so much, my beautiful spirit of a girl with a mouth the smile of water. I got you a phone because I never want to stop listening to you.

Happy birthday sweet girl.
Love,
Mommy

9, 8, 7, 6, 5 (too pregnant and cranky to write), 4, 3, 2, 1 (pre-blog)

Thursday, April 21, 2016

Parties Weren't Meant To Last

There is nothing I can say here that hasn't been said better a thousand times today in the countless articles and Facebook posts I've read about Prince's passing, but like most of you I feel the need to say me, too. 
Me, too. 

How silly it is to feel so crushed by the death of someone I never really knew, but there it is. I am crushed. Silly sad and mournful because while I never knew Prince, his music helped me know myself. 

(Purple Rain? How many countless nights I fell asleep listening to Purple Rain on my Walkman thinking about slow dancing with boys. When You Were Mine. Starfish & Coffee is still my very favorite song to walk around and sing out loud. Don't even get me started on Darling Nikki, how I wondered for years if he met her in a hotel lobby masturbating with a magazine meant she was looking at a sexy magazine while sitting on some sort of couch in the lobby? Or if she was maybe rubbing the magazine against herself? The logistics, I thought about the logistics far too much when I was younger. I mean, I guess I still don't exactly know the involvement of the magazine.)

Like I said, none of this is new. If you grew up in the 80s and 90s, then Prince surely had a role in your sexual awakening. Wendy? Yes Lisa. Is the water warm enough? Yes Lisa. Shall we begin? Yes Lisa. How could it not?

I have hinted at my love for Prince before, how gifable his eyes were back when we thought that just meant fuckable. He was my spirit animal, that funny sexy little man with the world's best side eye.

Now here we are and he is gone. Suddenly, and nothing feels right. I started a new job this past week which might feel like a non sequitur but it's not. Right. Yet. Nothing is, how for the past few weeks it has felt like the change of something consequential which is maybe why I haven't been writing here. Zoey turns 10 this weekend. 10. I swear that, too, happened suddenly, and I don't know who to eat lunch with at work, who to tell my jokes to, who to say stop. Did you hear? Prince died. Fuck. This can't be right. 

None of it.

xo,
S

Friday, March 11, 2016

The Art of Blowing Your Nose In Public

I have been sick these last few weeks. Nothing serious. Just the kind of sick that makes people put their bag on the empty seat next to them when they see me boarding the bus. The kind of sick that makes people at work kind of hate me for being there. The kind of sick that makes my nose red no matter how many times I pat concealer around my nostrils. (I have found that in general people don't like to acknowledge nostrils.)

Of course there are a thousand more interesting things I could write about. How well Zoey did on her report card, skateboarding, 4th grade girl drama, how Ozzy is obsessed with John Cena, his hair, my boobs. (Not just my boobs on their own but how Ozzy is obsessed with them.) I swear these things are interesting, at least more so than my nose.

A few weeks ago I shared something on Instagram that said Fuck work...Ima still go though. It was Monday morning, funny, it spoke to me. But it also spoke to the handful of Zoey's friends that now follow me on Instagram. I didn't even think about that until one of them commented with the wide-eyed blushing emoji. I immediately thought of that emoji that is supposedly chocolate ice cream but no one uses it for that. I scream, you scream, we all scream for! Shit. Not that the word fuck is going to kill Zoey's friends, but it's certainly not something I would have said to their faces.

Zoey asked me once if my blog is about her. Yes, I said. Kind of? Not really. I don't know. It used to be all about her. I guess I was a mommy blogger way back when, but slowly worlds began to collide and I've gradually realized that as my kids get older and more their own people, they are less mine to write about publicly. I mean, when Zoey was 2 I logically knew that she could read this one day, but now that she is 9 and follows me on Instagram I can see that the mythical one day is not that far off. I only hope that when she and Ozzy do read my blog, they will see how intensely I love them, love being their mom, but I also hope they get to know me as not just their mom, but as my own person, just like they are. Their own people whose privacy I have to respect.
JFK with his daughter Caroline wearing a JFK mask.
It's not as if I will never write about them again, but it's different now, or maybe this is how it should have been all along. Because of course I hate blowing my nose in public. Doesn't everyone? The trick is in owning it. Tucking your head down discreetly, yes, but using force, one, two, three, however many times it takes, and then efficiently, quickly, authoritatively using the tissue to make sure there are no boogers smeared across your upper lip. And then yes, writing about it on your blog if and when you want to.

Parent first, writer second.
I think I am almost not sick anymore.
xo,
S

Thursday, March 3, 2016

The Artist Formerly Known As Petunia Face

Dig if you will a picture...
Except I am pretty sure you and I should not engage in a kiss as I have been deathly ill with the flu or maybe just a bad cold, bronchitis, quite possibly walking pneumonia. Something tells me this is not the time to flinch from drama. Prince is playing tomorrow night nearby and I am still too sick (and didn't get tickets) to go. Meanwhile, Bryan is going to see the Dead Kennedys tomorrow night as if it is 1985 and he is not grounded with a sick wife and kids at home.

Whatevs.
When doves cry,
S

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Rock and Rolla Ayatollah

I have this thing I like to call The Daily Susannah. It's who I see in the mirror each day. Because with my hair growing out from bald, I don't feel like myself. Sure, you'd think that a year later I would be used to it, but that's the thing: it changes every freaking day. I change every day. So one day I may catch my reflection and there is Scott Baio. A blink of an eye later and I am The Heat Miser

For awhile there I was rocking a mean Marv Albert.
Honestly I don't even know who Marv Albert is; he is not really on my radar. But he must be subconsciously because one day I looked in the mirror and there is was, clear as day. Why hello there Marv Albert slash self!

Many days I feel like a politician's wife until I feel guilty for being so misogynistic and remind myself that no, I am Geraldine Goddamn Ferraro, may she RIP.
Other days, when I am not so intense but a bit foppish and clever, I am Emma Thompson. Specifically Love, Actually Emma Thompson. On these days I think in a British accent. (And I do hope you read that sentence in a British accent.)

Lately I seem to vary from Ronald Miller when I let my hair go bushy...
...to David Spade if I flat iron it.
And then last night I saw my new self, and it made me want to do a little dance. Wearing tight pants.

Because you guys, this is me. Today's Susannah. Everybody's talking 'bout my tight pants...
Got my tight pants on.
Xo,
S

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Naked

Zoey still takes showers with me. Not so much because she is concerned about the drought, but because she is worried about getting shampoo in her eyes. Which, on the one hand, I totally get. I mean, I still squinch my eyes shut fast to rinse my face because everyone knows that bad guys and ghosts like to fuck with you when you have your eyes closed in the shower. 

On the other hand, I haven't showered alone in almost a decade. 
Showering with a 9 year old is great for one's self-confidence. Why does your butt jiggle when you move? she says. What's that? pointing to something I am not even going to write down. We're running out of hot water, I answer, pulling her head back to get the soap out. 

I grew up with a mom that walked around the house naked. When my friends were over she would wear a June Cleaver organdy apron to appease me, despite the fact that it was see-through and tied open in the back. To this day my friends remember the palm tree tattoo she had on her ass. What can I say? It was the 70s. Now as a mother myself I would never go naked in front of my kids' friends. Instead I wear footie pajamas when I make pancakes after a sleepover, sometimes even with a bra underneath because support. And prude. And hot griddle. The names of my children are tattooed on the insides of my wrists.
You really have to learn how to shower alone, I tell Zoey. When you turn 10, I say, a line in the sand, like how the binkie fairy came to collect her pacifiers when she turned 3. You should treasure this, she says right after she tells me to move because I am hogging all the hot water, my almost 10 year old who is maybe smarter, or more manipulative, than I. Someday I won't want to take showers with you. And then she tilts her head back so I can rinse her hair.

The last time I saw my mom naked she was so sick, skinny, maybe 90lbs? Less? Everything hanging, thin, bony. I think I was helping her get dressed to go back to the hospital, drawstring yoga pants cinched tight and a cotton wrap. We stood in her tiny apartment and hugged for a very long time, probably the last time I hugged her while standing, her shoulders slivers of body, how small she was, how small.

Told you--bad guys and ghosts like to fuck with you when you have your eyes closed.
Zoey turns 10 in two months.
xo,

Sunday, January 31, 2016

The Rumors Of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated...

Because truth is always stranger than fiction, Bryan received a handwritten note from Kaiser Hospital yesterday.
Dear Mr. ______,
We were saddened to hear of Susannah's passing.
We hope that the good memories of life with her will help you through this difficult time.
Dr. Something or Other Pan
and
The Staff at Oncology/Hematology/Infusion
Kaiser Santa Clara

...

I mean--???

Bryan was doing whatever guys do when they just kind of stare into the engine of their truck when I walked passed him to get the mail. Hey, you got something handwritten from Kaiser, I said, want me to open it? So I did, his head under the hood of his truck. I'm dead, I said, and then he stood up and we just kind of stared at each other.

It sucks to find out you're dead as the result of a clerical error, particularly two days after you have gotten such good MRI results. But there it was signed in black and white: I had passed away. And they were sorry about it. 

So was I.

Even though it's a few hours south, Santa Clara is where I had to go for hematology after I returned from Israel. Apparently, they oversee an HSCT program for leukemia at Stanford and are familiar with stem cell/bone marrow transplant after-care. But I haven't seen them in a few months now. Just another huh? in the long, strange story of my health. I am dead to them. What can I say? You win some, you lose some.

Of course I have put in a call to let them know that I am still alive. Unless this is some M. Night Shyamalan movie starring me as a dead woman who thinks she is still alive, in which case this is a really cool blog. But I don't think so. I think this blog is just kinda' meh and they have me mistaken for another Susannah with a husband named Bryan whose good memories of life with her will have to suffice to help him through this difficult time. That time. Whose time?

All I know is this: if I am dead, then I am here to tell you that there is no tunnel of white light. Just squabbling children, tortillas with black beans and extra cilantro, and a sunny, cold Sunday afternoon in a house that smells like fresh laundry. Don't worry--if this is it, death is pretty fucking amazing.

xo,
S

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Scanxiety


After Bowie died I saw this quote a lot, maybe too much, the specter of a follow up MRI looming over me. "When are you going to do it?" everyone asked me, and I would try to shrug it off. "I'm too scared," I would say, feeling that by admitting that I was doing enough as it was. After all, there were no doctors insisting I had to. Because I did not partake in the U.S. clinical trial but had my hematopoietic stem cell treatment in Israel, I am kind of on my own here. Did it work? A question that can only be answered in the negative, which is the suckiest kind of question there is. The only test that would give me any answers was an MRI, and only then would it tell me if it did not work. So I didn't get one.

6 months went by. It was July then, and I certainly didn't want to cast a shadow on our summer. We went to our family reunion in August. I didn't want to deal with it then. September, school year, then the holidays. After Christmas, I told Bryan. I'll do it after Christmas. Well fuck me if Christmas didn't come and go. We took the tree down and I still hadn't scheduled it.

Bowie was right about fear. It was there as I played MagnaTiles with Ozzy on the carpet. Why do I feel that tight band sensation across my torso? What's that? Walking to work wondering if my legs felt heavier than the day before. Every single second splintered with the gnawing dread of please god no in my stomach. Did it?

Finally Bryan said I owed it to him and the kids to get the MRI. He said that we can't be in denial. If it didn't work then we need to be proactive about next steps. Of course that got to me, the kids. I certainly didn't want to do it for myself, but I had to do it for them. Fucking kids, man. Whether it's trapping a spider under a glass or getting a brain, cervical and thoracic spinal MRI with contrast gadolinium dye, they kind of make you have to be brave.

So two weeks ago I scheduled the MRI for this morning, telling myself I could cancel it at any time. Then I proceeded to not be able to eat, to sleep. I pooped a lot. What can I say? My fight or flight response is strong. This morning I woke up at 4:30am not able to fall back asleep for my 7:15am appointment despite the Excedrin PM I took. The best way to describe how I felt is a bit of a cliche, but it's spot on: I wanted to crawl out of my goddamn skin. 

By the time I got to my MRI appointment my teeth were chattering. I signed all the usual papers, made small talk with the technician as she loaded blankets on top of me thinking I was cold even though I was actually a little sweaty. Then I spent 2 hours inside the tube, you know, just me, the banging clanging beeping of the MRI, and my thoughts. My fucked up, anxious, worst-case-scenario thoughts. It was a time.

I should just cut to the chase, shouldn't I? We will email your results either today or tomorrow, they said, so what I heard was refresh your email every few minutes because it could be right now. Or now. Now?

Now. First I got the results for my brain scan. Normal. No new lesions. Stable. All the words I wanted to hear. And then I waited for the spinal results. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. Freaking out that they were taking longer. Would it take them longer to type up a report on new activity? Then I got that email, and you know the other cliche about the blood draining from your face? Also true. I opened the email: Normal. No new lesions. Stable.

And then I fucking lost it. Crying, shaking, happy. I called my dad who started sobbing on the phone (sorry to blow your cool, Dad). Bryan all shiny-eyed. All of us stunned with the relief of being able to cry happy tears for the first time in a very long time.

You guys. It worked. My treatment. I know I said that the MRI would only be able to tell me if it didn't work, and that's still true, but so is this. It worked. For now. My MS is in remission. Yes, I could probably go through all this teeth-chattering-poop-inducing-anxiety in a year or so and get another MRI, but most people who have HSCT only get one follow up MRI, then opt to have more only if their symptoms get worse. 

So if the lowest depths of misery is living in fear, then what does it mean when you conquer that fear? Everything. It means fucking everything.

With so much love and gratitude,
S

p.s. If you or anyone you know has MS and are curious about the treatment, here's a recent article on healthline.com about the U.S. clinical trial performed by Dr. Burt at Northwestern. It is difficult to be accepted into the trial or treated off-trial, but there are also many international centers that offer HSCT for MS and other autoimmune diseases. If you would like more info, please don't hesitate to email me.

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Happy Birthday (Just a Thing That Happened to Me)

Since the beginning of January I've been tripping myself out with the this time last years.... (Such a fan of the mind fuck, as evidenced here and here and here.) This time last year I was saying goodbye to my family. I was flying to Israel. I was getting a picc line inserted. I was having chemo. I was reborn. (Which sounds vaguely Christian, though that is not what I mean. Not at all.)

This time last year. I held onto this paper as if it could explain how the hell I got there, to Israel, sure, but also to MS. How? Why? Is, Am, Are, Was, Were, Be, Being, Been. Lama? Which is why in Hebrew. Only it isn't really, because לָמָּה? Nothing made sense, makes? not even my tenses here in the retelling, in a country of a different alphabet in a reality that I never ever in a million years would have thought possible. I held onto those days counting down, -6 and -5 Campath, -2 and -1 Fludarabine, Cytoxan, everything measured per kg and m2, bottles and boxes of pills lined up on the table in my hotel room, this one once a day, that one twice, those 3x/day, drink 3 liters of water. Cyclophosphamide, alemtuzumab, omepradax. Later, when I was allowed to go outside, I would think of the mangy street calicos as names of all the drugs. Zylol to protect my kidneys, also a pretty name for an ugly cat.

It seems impossible that this was only one year ago, much less that it happened at all. Did my neutrophils really drop so low that I didn't have an immune system? Did I really have MS? Do I? Once again the tense all sorts of huh. Every once in a while I hear the jingle to Trivia Crack, an app I played incessantly alone in my hotel room in Israel, or I hear the ring of a Skype call, and I am right back there, that feeling, that white room, far away from everything ever and I can't breathe from the something I can't even name.

(Other times I tell people that if this treatment worked and I no longer have MS, then the whole ordeal--getting MS, researching the treatment, going to Israel, having a bone marrow transplant, chemo, getting sick, getting healthy--if it worked, then this whole ordeal is the best thing that has ever happened to me. It has made me feel more alive, more appreciative, more present, more more. More afraid, more angry, more sad, because of course, if it didn't work, then it's the worst thing that ever happened to me. And then I laugh a little. Ha.)
(Ha.)

This time last. Here I am today. I hate my hair growing out from chemo, but I also have a new found sense of whatever. The best thing that ever happened to me, the worst thing that ever happened to me. Either way, it was just a thing that happened to me. 
This time now.
xo,
S

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

Janet

I have a friend that I have not yet met. Her name is Janet and we sit next to each other on the bus most every day.
I don't know if Janet is really her name. Maybe it's Rebecca or Tish or Autumn, even. Still, I think of her as Janet, even though I know a Janet in real life which makes it even more realistic, how sometimes you have friends with the same name. 

I have never spoken to Janet, but almost every day she gets on at the stop right after mine, and almost every day she sits next to me. This has been going on for a few years now. Even when there are other empty seats, she sits next to me. I don't so much mind. She has narrow shoulders and sits small. I hate it when a large man sits next to me, his upper arm warm and knowing against mine.

Janet is smart, I think. A little older than I am. Her hair is black with smatterings of gray, like how a kid might have a smattering of freckles, only it's not cute, not really. For some reason I don't think Janet realizes just how gray she's getting. She works in the financial sector, frustrated sometimes that she did not do anything more with her painting. She used to love to draw.

I admire much about my friend Janet, most of which is how she has a way of saying nothing eloquently. In the morning she holds her phone in her lap as shiny as a beetle. I am good at keeping my head straight while darting my eyes to her screen. Once I saw her write something to someone on Facebook in Tagalog (I think). (Janet is part Filipino.) (I think.) When she is not on Facebook she is on Shopbop, scrolling through pages of sleeveless shifts of pink and orange. This makes me sad, mainly because she only ever wears neutrals, sensible fabric and shoes, and she would really rock the shit out of a sleeveless pink and orange dress if she would just let herself buy one.

Janet has not been on my bus for the last few days. She is probably sick. Or on vacation. (I hope she has not been fired.)

A woman named Deb sat next to me today. She has also been on my bus for years. I am not particularly fond of Deb, even though I have not yet met her either. She has frizzy hair and says hellooooo! to the bus driver as she scans her commuter card. How are youuuuuuu? to people she knows across the aisle. Can you believe all this raiiiiiinnnnnn? to no one at all. I close my eyes and miss Janet. My friend Janet.

Thursday, December 24, 2015

Happy Everything

Today

2014

 2013

 2012

 2011

2010

2009 (missing)

2008

2007

Love,
S

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Dear Teresa

I wrote down the date today and realized, holy mother of all that is shut the front door, Teresa Guidice is getting out of prison tomorrow.

Where did the year go, Teresa? I mean, can you believe we are here? That we made it? Because we did it, Teresa, the thing we thought we couldn't possibly do. We did it and now we are home, right where we are supposed to be, thank you Jesus. We are home.
Wishing you, Gia, Milania, Gabriella, Audriana and Joe a holiday filled with love.

xo,
S

Thursday, December 17, 2015

Dead Mother Sighting @ Pine/Battery: A Text Conversation Between Me and My Brother

I still (always) miss her so much.
xo,
S

Monday, December 14, 2015

Just Another Weekend in December

Friday night I went to a party where I got a super flattering photo of my soul. Okay, maybe not my soul, per se, but my electromagnetic field? Or my blatant need to believe in something mystical, depending on your level of woo. (For the record, I place myself somewhere in the middle of woo and woo.)
Apparently the blue arc means that I lead from the heart, that I'm kind, generous, intuitive, sensitive (so be nice in the comments). The purple points to me being a visionary, unconventional, creative, playful, non-judgmental (the only attribute I cock an eyebrow at, because duh--I am one judge-y bitch). The white orbs are flashes of higher consciousness, my angels, which is good because as I sat down to have my picture taken I closed my eyes and told my mom that she better show up. The rods emanating from my head? Honestly I forget what the aura lady said those were, and now all I can think of is the priest in The Omen, how the photograph of him showed a javelin-like object through his head, and then later he was impaled by the church spire. So if you hear that my skull has been crushed by some multi-pronged sharp thing, you have my permission to shave Ozzy's head and look for the sign of the devil.

So there I am, my energy. Do I believe? After the party I Googled auras and read all about it, the colors, the arcs and energy, Kirlian photography. I definitely believe that we all have energy. Sometimes I meet people whose energy just makes me happy; I like them instantly. And then there are people whose energy makes me close up for no other reason than they just feel off. Of course Google also showed me some articles debunking aura photography. I decided not to read them. 

Saturday I went to a memorial service for two people that I loved. There was a sacred Wiccan dance ceremony with drums, sage, bells. I closed my eyes during the guided meditation and tried very hard to think of nothing.

Sunday I went to a traditional German holiday glühwein & plätzchen party. I drank hot spiced red wine and felt hearty. 

Heart-y.
After all, this is the season to believe in it all.

Hope your weekend was just as...

xo,
S

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Not It

It's December now. I'm here. It's just--
It's just that there was a terrible tragedy in my family, something so unfathomably sad that I didn't know how to write about not it because it was not/is not mine to write about. Please know I hate vague blogging, booking, vaguery of any sort. While this is not mine to write about, it also feels starkly wrong not to say that we are going through something. (Then there is also the fact that I am pretty sure I have a reputation as a bit of a downer here on the www, what with the disease and the deaths and the sickness and the fuck?)

So here we are and it's December. I still don't know how to write about not it except to say that it is there, but so is this: we went to the Nutcracker. Had photos taken with Santa. Ozzy likes to kiss my closed eyes, and Zoey, well Zoey asks me to talk to her about everything and I know this will not last forever. Even with my horrible, frizzy, awkward hair Bryan still makes lewd comments when I walk naked from our bed to the bathroom each morning.

So there is that. 
Today is Tuesday. Let's see what Tuesday brings.
xo,
S

Friday, November 20, 2015

All Of It True

It has been a week of cognitive dissonance. Of feeling soul-punched by what happened in Paris but at the same time guilty that I do not have the same reaction to Beirut, angry that I feel guilty, scared of what I do not understand, warmed by the stories on Facebook, the inspirational quotes with the incorrect use of 'your'. It has been a week of feeling too much contradictory shit at once, of thinking about how we strive for internal consistency because contradictory beliefs cause psychological strife; this is what I think about while watching Vanderpump Rules. 

I can no longer skip, a milestone that tripped me up without realizing it. I mean, I knew I could not really run anymore. The damage caused by MS pulled at me slowly, like how when you're swimming in the ocean and look up to realize that the tide has pulled you down the beach. You look for your umbrella on the sand. Where? So the running--whatever. I can't really run, I say weakly to my kids when we play. Stop. But skip. I tried to show Ozzy how to skip the other day and it was gone. More of a lurch. A huh? The myelin sheath apparently scarred over on my skip neuron. Okay then. The list of things I can still do is so much longer than what I can't, the can't hopefully halted. I am okay. It will all be okay. When's the last time I skipped anyway?

A friend of mine at work made me this shirt that I will love forever, although I have yet to figure out the best place to wear it. The office, yoga, school drop off--what's going to come of all of this?
The spirit in me honors the spirit in you, motherfucker. Contradictory and true.
Xo,
S

Monday, November 9, 2015

4th Grade and Pre-K, Inspired by Pablo Neruda

Mondays are meshed with Tuesdays, and the week with the whole year. Time cannot be cut with your weary scissors…

How I love Pablo Neruda.
I seem to have glanced down at my lap for a moment, and when I looked up my children were grown. Not grown grown, certainly, but Pablo had it right when he said that Time lost its shoes. A year is four centuries. Suddenly Zoey has eyes that are a little bit far away, and Ozzy, well, Ozzy says things so true that they burn like a coin in my hand. 

That is what parenthood does to you; it takes time and wraps it like an errant hair around its little finger, sometimes its middle finger. It points at you and tells you to shut it. There is nothing linear about this business of being their mommy. You will always be my baby, I whisper into their necks because they always have been, before any of us were even here.

Pick a number and I will count to it. If I could do nothing for once then perhaps a great silence would interrupt this tangle of me trying to understand how fast it's going, where it's going, how much I love them like a small dry star in my mouth.

Any number.

xo,
S