The Other Woman

My Blog made me type in my entire password before she would let me in. I think she's giving me the silent treatment for being so neglectful.

Can you send a blog flowers?

I can't blame her for being upset. I was unfaithful after all.



*hangs head in shame*



But it wasn't my fault! I was seduced......by her younger, cunning, more attractive sister.




Oh, she made it so easy for me. Lovingly asking, "What's on your mind?" every time I came to call. And she didn't nag me to write out every single detail of my life.




No.




She was satisfied by a simple phrase like: "Christy is eating a loaf of bread." or "Christy is knitting a cat sweater."

She was constantly introducing me to friends-hundreds of them! Every time I stopped by they would be there, waiting to tell me how they "just started a load of laundry" or what character from T.V.'s the "A -Team" they were most like. (Murdock!)

I bet Mr. T is his "friend".

She adorned me with dazzling Flair, flooded me with pictures of everyone's exotic trips to Europe, Hawaii and The Olive Garden, and all around wooed me with the thrill of instant gratification.

I fell in love.......

But love is blind, isn't it?

A lesson I learned one day after being lured to Her page by the red sign in the corner of my screen.

"You have 3 notifications," she purred.

I clicked on it and clapped. "Goody!!"

The excitement was almost unbearable as my mind sifted through the endless combinations of virtual gifts awaiting me on Her homepage.

"Maybe she has a new comment for me on my 'Christy eating a churro' picture? Ooh, I know, it's a new friend request! Or, OR......maybe someone WROTE ON MY WALL!!"

"You have (3) new Know-It-All Trivias to play today." she coldly replied.

Wha? 'Trivia'? She brought me here for trivia?!?

Annoyed, I continued to scroll down through what seemed to be an ever-growing list of , well.......junk.

"SecretCrushes predicts which of your friends might have a crush on you! Find out who they are NOW!"

"New Quiz of the Day: What farm animal are you?"

"Buy a Hired Thug in 'Mafia Wars'!"

"FARKLE! Get more points when you play!"

I did not like this side of her.

Every impersonal request seemed to scream what I- blinded by the thrill of social networking- had refused to see all along.

She was using me.

After all, she did have millions of other "Friends" to attend to.

Friends who would Farkle.

She enticed me with the promise of reconnecting with friends, the ease of communicating in toddler-like sentences ("Christy @ Target. Buying waffle maker.") and the high of having 300+ Friends at your disposal. But in the end, she's just a working girl, doing her best to make a living. She wants us there so we will to click on "Oprah's Acai berry diet" ad, become 'fans' of Air Quotes, and add every quiz application known to man.

But,you know what? That's ok. Because we've come to an understanding, she and I. We are both more fully aware of what we expect from each other. She lets me post pictures of the first day of school so that my friends and family can "ooh" and "ahh" over Ava's Hello Kitty backpack, and I let her bombard me with advertisements for "Red Bull taste testers" and Landscaping Companies. I've pulled away ever so slightly so that I can (try to) dedicate a little time to the whole story again.

Which is how I find myself here, at the doorstep of my trusty blog, begging for forgiveness. Wracking my brain for the dozens of little anecdotes and stories worth remembering that need a welcoming place to dwell. A place to write my triumphs, fears, embarrassments, and greatest joys. The only journal I've even partially stuck with.


And hopefully, with time, my posterity will learn that I am a little more than "Most likely to be Tootie from 'Facts of Life' ".

It's good to be home.

He's been searching for you on Facebook!

PS. I'm still a FB lover- loud and proud! Once an addict.....

PPS. I've also been horrible at keeping up with YOUR blogs! I need to repent. I promise I will get started neglecting my children so that I can catch up. xoxo

RUN FOR IT

Athleticism and I go together about as well as the "Baby Mamas" and their recently lie detector tested husbands on any episode of Maury Povich.


Someone curses. Someone cries.



Someone is hit in the head with a folding chair.



"Someone" is me.




I cringe when I think about the first time my poor husband (fiancé at the time) playfully tossed a ball my way.



"Catch!"




His skilled throw had aimed the ball to fall perfectly in my hands. I only needed to raise my open palm 3 inches to complete the exercise.



I chose, instead, to swat at the ball and squeal, "Eek!" as if it were a giant, circular insect.




I watched as Adam's expression turned from shock to shame and eventually, pity. There is a very real possibility that if we hadn't already put a sizable down payment on our wedding, that he might've bolted right then.



I'm hopeless.



I couldn't even run the required mile in Freshman P.E. I walked it, and then ran...... to get my inhaler.


*puff, wheeeeze*



So it makes perfect sense that 9 months ago, when my friend Linsey asked if I would join her and 10 other skilled runners in Utah for the Wasatch Back 24 hour ragnar relay race (from Logan to Salt Lake) that I said,


"Sure!"


I think I've taken one too many folded chair hits to the head.




Whether is was a previous brain injury or that Linsey bribed me with the promise of a "karaoke all nighter" when I completed the race, I agreed to run all day and all night through the mountainous Utah terrain.


Who do I think I am!?



I know who I'm not........a runner.


Which became very apparent on my first day of training. I reported to the track, pretended I knew how to stretch, and geared up for the run. Halfway through the first minute I had to stop for fear my burning lungs would burst and bloody my new pretty running shoes.


Thirty seconds!?


I was disgusted with myself. I hated that feeling.

But I liked the idea of conquering it. So I went back the next day, and started again.



Thirty seconds became a minute. A minute became five. I was even able to pass the older gentleman who walked in the morning with his oxygen tank rolling behind him. (Passing him without the tank would take another month.)

Physically, I was beginning to improve. (I could stave off wheezing for a whole 10 minutes!) But mentally, I was on shaky ground.

I felt like an impostor. (An impostor in really fancy running shoes, but an impostor none the less.) There was not an ounce of grace in my stride, I was embarrassingly slow, and I still cradled my inhaler like a long lost friend.

How would I ever pull this off?

One day, while in the middle of a raging "This is hard!" pity party, I clicked on a blog link posted by my lovely and amazing friend, Melanie.

"Shelby's Journey" it read, in bold across the top of the screen.

I scrolled down through the months, back to the beginning of her story, when one of the posts caught my eye. Melanie had written this post for her sister. Shelby couldn't make it to the computer that day.

Shelby is not one to complain. And hasn't. I just wanted to let you all know that she has been quite sick this weekend. The weeks of chemo have finally caught up with her and she is sick and tired, has sores all over in her mouth, throat and intestines. Her fingers have lost most of the feeling in them now and she has a hard time keeping hold of stuff. She says she is dropping a lot on the floor because she just can't grip right. Her fingernails have finally started turning black and she is just feeling pretty rotten. I am so glad she won't have to go in Wed for another treatment. Please keep her in your prayers this week - especially tomorrow. We want that PET scan to be Cancer free! I love you Shel. I am sorry you are feeling yuck.

My "pity party" transformed into a lump in my throat. This beautiful, young mother of 4 had Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma and was in the fight of her life. I continued reading Shelby's story, astounded at her courage, envious of her wit.


I've had a few different people ask me if i want to just sit down and throw a little pity-party sometimes. I don't. And its not because I'm a marvel or a super-hero. I have made lists over and over in my mind of all the bad and all the good that has come of this. The good list is much, much longer than the bad list and I think I would be so ungrateful to feel sorry for myself for one minute. There are things that I don't like, obviously! My fingers and toes are numb on the ends... and now my heels, too. My taste buds come and go. I have sores in my throat and weird jaw pain. I'm tired and sick sometimes. I'm bald. And there's other stuff. BUT I have felt all the love everyone in the world has for me and have been served daily by friends and family.

I wiped my tears and grabbed my running shoes. Her story had given me strength. I made a quiet vow to think of Shelby, the most inspiring person I had never met, if ever discouragement came to call.

Run like her.

My thoughts wandered to 8 years earlier, on my wedding day. Adam's brother stood to toast our love and our effervescent future. His freshly shorn head glistened under the lights. He was pale from an earlier dash to the restroom, thanks to the effects of chemo. I was young and stupid and self involved. I had no idea how much strength it took for him-for the whole family- to be there that day. They all selflessly put aside the crippling fear and constant worry brought on by his shocking diagnosis and debilitating treatment. Andy has been in remission from Hodgkin's Lymphoma for almost 7 years.

I knew that I couldn't make up for the time that I lost, but maybe I could do something to help ensure that my husband's beautiful family would never have to go through that again.

Run for them.

It was at another wedding, a year before my own, that I first witnessed the pain and sadness accompanied with cancer.

Jake, one of our dearest friends, was marrying Sara, the love of his life. It was a magical ceremony. If perfect is attainable- this was it. And yet, there was something missing, or rather, someone missing.

Kelly was Jake's older brother and personal hero. In November, 1997 he was diagnosed with CML Leukemia. I can't imagine the helplessness felt by Jake and his family when they were unable to find a match for his bone marrow. He received an imperfect match and fought for a year and a half before he passed away from complications from the transplant.

Kelly was 29 years old. His young wife, Jill attended her husband's funeral with their infant son, Wyatt.

There isn't a day that passes that Kelly isn't loved and deeply missed by his family.

Run for the families who were left behind.

These are people who know what it is to truly fight for their lives. Their experiences have given my silly running experiment a whole new meaning. And it would be my honor if I could help them in return.

Jake and his friends at the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society have been kind enough to help me set up a donations page. I will be running 16 miles total, so I thought it appropriate to set my goal at $1,600. I know that even the smallest donation would mean so much to them. This page will be up through the month of June.

DONATE HERE to help LLS

In return, I am completely willing to make a fool of myself with my gawky, "injured bird-like" running and finish this race.

No matter what, I won't give up.....they taught me that.

(I know that most of you won't be there to see me embarrass myself at this race, so if you need me to make a fool of myself in person in order to get your donation, I am without shame and more than willing to do so.)

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support!!!

The Tooth About Fairies

"How did I get here?" I whispered, annoyed at my inability to break loose from the situation.

It was a loss cause.

I assumed they would find my remains in the morning. I could just hear the sound bytes used by various news shows;


"Local Mom Trapped While Trying To Impersonate Tooth Fairy. News at 11."


Oh, and the ensemble they would find me wearing!! With my smeared eyeliner and over sized stripped shirt, I would either be accused of imitating a poorly dressed pirate or one of these guys:

But, I digress.

As Julie Andrews so beautifully sang while playing the part of the naive and goodhearted nun, Maria: "Let's start at the very beginning......a very good place to start."

It was like any other morning. The girls were moving through the house like three toed sloths, stopping to stare off into space in between every menial task I asked of them. And then there is me, hopping around and pointing to the clock like the proverbial "white rabbit", hoping to scare some urgency into them by yelling out ,"We're late! We're late!!"

Whether she was actually motivated by my bunny hop, or just disturbed by the performance, Ava seemed to respond by shoveling cereal into her mouth at a pace that rivaled the starving orphans from Oliver.

(Apparently, this whole post is going to be chalk full of comparisons to literary characters and musicals. My apologies. I am what happens when a folk singing, musical loving, English major breeds with a folk dancing, musical loving, bibliophile. I never had a chance...)

Suddenly, I heard my sweet Ava "yelp". I ran over to her, concerned that her big, blue eyes had more than doubled in size.

"Mah toot!" she said, pointing frantically to her mouthful of cereal.

"What?!"

"Maaahh TOOT!"

"Oh, your tooth...... (gasp!) YOUR TOOTH?!!"

I peered inside her open mouth and sure enough, under a cluster of half chewed Fruit Loops, there was an empty socket where a baby tooth once resided. Quickly overcoming my aversion to "ABC food", I fished around the multicolored mush and retrieved the infant tooth.

As I cleaned and safeguarded her prized keepsake in a plastic bag, Ava danced around me, giddy with excitement. It finally happened! She had been waiting for this day from the moment she felt that little tooth wiggle. Tonight was the night that she would finally get to experience.....

The Tooth Fairy.

For weeks she had been fretting over what this night would be like. Ava's stuffed animal tea parties were replaced with round table discussions on whether or not Ms. Fairy left toys as well as money and if so, would she consider leaving a red whistle?

She asked every tooth fairy veteran she could find a series of detailed questions relating to their personal "Tooth Fairy experience".

"How much did she leave you?"

"Does she favor coins or paper money?"

"Was it U.S. or foreign currency?"

Ava's research was so thorough, that I considered selling it to college students who were looking for a Senior thesis. At any rate, I started to get nervous. Short of dressing up like a fairy and rigging a pulley system so that I could fly around Ava's bedroom, I was pretty sure we weren't going to live up to her 5 year old fantasy.

As I watched Ava skip up the walkway to preschool with her tooth bag in tow (she was a hit at show and tell) panic began to set in. Luckily, I married a lovely man who is great under pressure and after a brief pow wow, he reminded me that Ava's most requested Tooth Fairy spoils were really quite simple: 4 "coins" and a small toy. I pulled 4 quarters from my purse and Adam volunteered to pick up a toy on his way home. Ava becomes excited about free gifts at the bottom of our cereal boxes, so any small trinket would work. (Well, anything but a whistle. Ms. Fairy draws the line at the constant, shrill "Pweeeet" of dollar store torture.)

As bed time drew closer, I found myself becoming excited as well. It was to be our first ever Tooth Fairy visit! Teeth were brushed, prayers were said and Ava's precious tooth was placed gently under her pillow. After a quick reminder that, much like our friend Santa, the Tooth Fairy wouldn't come until she knew you were asleep, my ever obedient Ava turned over and squeezed her eyes shut.

Thus began my "Fairy Adventure".....

I waited one whole Grey's Anatomy and half a 30 Rock before creeping up the stairs to her room. I ran through "Operation T.F.'s" checklist in my head.

4 coins......check!

small toy.......che-

I looked in the bag. Oh, it was there alright. All 10 feet of it.

Adam knew that Ava had been asking for a jump rope for sometime, and this was the perfect opportunity to surprise her with one. I wholeheartedly agreed with my thoughtful husband.

And then I realized that I would need to stuff this bulky wad of rope under 2 feet of thin, pink pillow......without waking the slumbering recipient.

I tip toed into Ava's room. Any hope that the stars would align and her little head would be on the far side of her bed, quickly vanished when I saw her resting defiantly, smack dab in the middle of the pillow.

I looked down at my over sized, prison stripped pj's and attempted to muster up even the tiniest bit of stealth or ninja-like qualities. I took a deep breath, and slowly began to slide my hand underneath her pillow to retrieve the tooth.

Yes! Mission completed! She was out like a light.

I replaced the tooth with 4 shiny quarters and slid the bag back under her pillow.

Wait! There's movement!! We have movement!

Ava shifted her body towards me. I ducked quickly behind her bed, my hand still grasping the coins..........and still under her pillow. Peeking out from behind her mattress, I surveyed Ava's new position. Her face was now inches from my own. The sweat began to gather on my forehead as I inched my arm out from beneath her (unusually heavy?) head.

Now that the coins were in place, I had but one more assignment. I clutched the jump rope and, little by little, began the delicate task of situating the toy below her noggin. I thought my heart would stop every time I heard the packaging CRACKLE and POP. The rope was almost completely covered by pillow when I felt Ava begin to shift once more. I darted back down behind the bed, leaving my arm behind, and waited breathlessly for the movement to stop.

It did stop.......but not before she GRABBED ONTO MY ARM!

I sat there, frozen, not sure what to do. Ava slept soundly while clinging to my arm like one of her stuffed, bedtime companions. I came out from my hiding place to survey the situation. One thing was for sure- I could not risk the possibility of her waking up to see her clumsy, pajama clad mom in place of the tooth fairy. What kind of a parent ruins the magic of the tooth fairy on her first try?!?

So I sat there. My hand still holding the rope, Ava still holding me.

As my arm began to tingle and go numb, I felt a new understanding for the many stories I've heard of wayward hikers who's various limb(s) have been trapped underneath falling rocks and who, desperate to be free, make the decision to part with said limb(s). But alas, I was without a pocket knife or sharp stick, so I settled for perusing a copy of "One Fish, Two Fish" instead.

After what seemed like hours (but was merely minutes) Ava loosened her grip on my arm enough that I was able to release the jump rope and complete my Tooth Fairy duties.

When she bounded down the stairs the next morning, waving her tooth fairy loot, I was pretty sure that she was oblivious to what had transpired the night before. There was, however, a moment of panic when she came up to me, holding her bag of quarters with tears in her eyes.

"What's wrong honey?" (Please don't remember. Please don't remember.)

"I (sniffle) m-miss my b-baby tooth (sniffle)."

I was surprised at how quickly my own tears began to form as I rocked and comforted my sweet girl. (Though I really shouldn't have been surprised. For Pete's sake, I cry at America's Next Top Model.)

"It's OK, Av's. Just think about the new "grown-up" tooth that will take it's place! How cool is that?"

I did my best to convince us both that this loss was a good thing. That it was an exciting and essential part of growing up-a new beginning of sorts.

While my words seemed to comfort Ava, who scampered off to look at her new toothless grin in the mirror, I realized how fleeting these last moments of Ava's "baby dome" really were.

And right then, a night with Ava, clinging tightly to my arm, sounded just like heaven.

Can it

We were gathered in my girlfriend's front yard after a quick run.


The ritual of "cooling down" was in full swing.


My lovely friends gracefully stretch and contort their bodies in a style that would make the Grand Master of Yoga jealous.


I say a silent prayer that I won't split my pants, as I move my legs further and further apart in an effort to touch my toes. (It's horrifying. If you hate me, film it and put it on You Tube. That'll teach me.)


After the stretching (them) and knee touching (me) is over we all flop down on the cool grass and begin talking and laughing and nodding our heads in agreement at one another's stories. Like most fabulous "girl talk" dialogue, we begin with daydreams of Costa Rican vacations and end up sharing amazing recipes for beets.


(The ebb and flow of our conversations, has to be one of my favorite parts about being a woman..............well that, and the shoes.)


I was sitting there, wrinkling my nose at the thought of beets, when the conversation turned once again.



"Ooh! My grandma makes the BEST canned beets. Honestly. They are heaven!" -Lovely Girl #1


(PANG) "Ouch! What was that?!" I wondered silently.



"Mmm. Sounds good. Send me your Grandma's recipe. I'd love it!" - Lovely girl #2



(PINCH, PANG) "Owie! What the-?" I grabbed my heart and hoped no one would notice.


" I will! My Grandma's beets are so scrumptious!"- Lovely Girl #1


(I'm pretty sure you didn't say 'scrumptious', Natalie. But it's such a fun word to say. Very "Mary Poppins". Please forgive the embellishment. )




With the third "PANG, TUG, PINCH" of my heart, I realized that it was no coincidence that these pangs of sadness, tugging at my heart, happened to show up during a conversation about canning......





and Grandma.




"Oh!" I thought. "I miss you!"



I miss her.




I recounted this experience a few days later to my Mom. How funny it was that talk of canned beets could suddenly illuminate such a distinct childhood memory of my Grandma.

The rows and rows of canned peaches, apricots, and numerous veggies (from her immaculate garden) that lined the pantry shelves. The boxes she would ship, filled to the brim with canned delights, who in her haste, she would often forget to label. We had great fun playing "guess the mystery fruit".


I have so many "Grandma memories" and with your permission, I'd love to share just a few of the many things I loved about her.



*Take out.
My Grandma always made us eat before we left the house.....even if we were leaving to go eat. I distinctly remember shoveling a giant "baby-head" sized cinnamon roll into my mouth so she would let me walk with my friends down to a sandwich shop...... for lunch.



And you wonder why my posts are riddled with food references......





*Waste not, want not.
My Grandma was a child of The Depression. This contributed to the creative way she utilized every last morsel of food, every item of clothing, and every piece of furniture. As children, we were fascinated by this and thought it great fun to see what Grandma would do next- for the most part.



It was fun to play outside on the old paint cans that were turned into tin can stilts, using a piece of old rope.



It was fun to giggle at the bottle of "moonshine" (from the 40's!) that she had under the sink, just in case she needed it for "medicinal purposes".



It was not fun when we sat down for lunch and noticed the pitcher of juice she set on the table (from the 40's?) was old and clumpy, and unfit for even the strongest of stomachs.



We all breathed a sigh of relief when we noticed Grandma walking with a fresh pitcher of juice towards our table.



And we all watched, horrified, as she proceeded to pour the fresh, fruit drink into the crypt of a pitcher that held the mummified "juice".



"Waste not, Want not." She sung.



That day, we chose "want not".



*Max Factor's Muse.
Grandma helped contribute to my fascination/obsession with makeup. More than that- she understood it. During her visits, I would sit on her bed and begin the ceremonious task of opening her many makeup bags and pouches. It was a wonderland of powders, perfumes and every lip color you could imagine. She watched me -straight faced- as I colored myself happy in all manner of hideous shades. Then, she would proudly parade me in front of the family, never once commenting on the fact that perhaps the tangerine lipstick and indigo eyeshadow I wore, were not appropriate for a little girl of 10. She knew I felt beautiful..........and she told me I was.


The day she was being prepared for her funeral, my Mom handed me her make-up bag.




" Why don't you pick out some makeup that Grandma would want to wear today."


It was the perfect way to say goodbye.





One last time, I opened the pouches and smelled the perfumes. They smelled like her. I took a deep breath and inhaled the fragrances as I tried to commit them to memory. Each keepsake I opened held a special place in my heart, as my search for the perfect color continued.
And then......


My hands curled around the worn brass of a familiar container.


There it was, just as I had remembered it.


I smiled through my tears as I opened the tangerine lipstick, and set it aside.




Just a few memories.....







It's good to remember. The (PANGS) are good too. They remind me how much I love her, and that she is still with me. They remind me to tell my girls that they are beautiful, every time they do their own hair or dress-up in funny clothes. They remind me that (almost) everything has value.




They remind me of her.






Oh, and if you see me shoveling rolls the size of "baby heads" into my mouth, please don't be concerned.





It's what Grandma would want me to do.

Caution: Monkey Dancing

I often shy away from confrontation.


Scratch that.


I often run, full speed, my feet spinning in circles, like they do in Saturday Morning cartoons, from anything that slightly resembles confrontation.


It is because of this that I have, on more than one occasion:

*eaten something completely different than what I had originally ordered at a restaurant.

*let student(s) take credit for work that I had done in school.

*high fived someone who had just insulted me. (Yeah! Good one! *smack*)

*worked hours of overtime, but never claimed it, because I didn't want to be a burden on corporate America. (Listen, they had a lot on their plates. Those spa retreats to Sedona don't just book themselves, you know.)



Growing older (and wiser?) hasn't much helped with my "backbone deficiency". Instead, I have developed a very mature and emotionally advanced way of dealing with any uncomfortable situation. I believe the technical term for it is:

"acting a fool"

I know it sounds complicated to those not trained in the art of "fool-ology", but I'll try to put it in layman's terms.

If ever there comes a time when I sense the onset of crippling anxiety, or feel beads of sweat gathering on my forehead because my "Confront-o-meter" is registering CODE RED, I become a goofy, slaphappy, do anything to ease the tension- including point out any and all of my freaky body flaws- fool of a woman.

(Confession: There have been many a night where I have brought out my "crooked witch finger" just to give my girlfriends a good laugh. Missing tendons + witch cackle = hours of giggles.)

I like to call this embarrassing behavior, "The Monkey Dance".

Whether I'm prompted by an organ grinder or wound up and released......... I go ape.

I'm sure many of you can relate. You've grabbed those symbols and happily banged away in hopes of convincing the audience that you are "footloose and fancy free".

"Everything's fine! Not anxious at all!" Bang Bang Bang

"I'm not uncomfortable in the slightest!" Back flip......Bang Bang Bang

I thought I was succeeding in my "Monkey Dancing". In fact, Julliard's School of Dance had offered me a position to teach my specific style of performance.

(Not really, but wouldn't that have been great? "OK ladies, symbols and/or organs ready and dance......2....3....4. And, distract.....6....7....8. Excellent! They had no idea you threw up a little bit in your mouth because you were so scared. Remove your tiny hats and take a bow!")

(You know she's a fancy monkey dancer because she has a tea cup.)

But the truth is, I learned very recently that my dancing isn't something to be celebrated. It's merely a mask I wear, a way of hiding. And like a bad penny, the truth always has a way of showing up.

One evening, after a week of clanging and banging, back flipping and bowing, something unusual happened. I wanted to dance for a friend, and when I tried to wind up and perform, what came out instead was an awful, horrible,

"GRRRRRR YIP SNIP ACK COUGH SSNORT SNIP...... SNAP!"

I was stunned at my response. This wasn't like me. I couldn't even so much as clap! Instead I snipped and yipped. I didn't like me.......not like this.

I felt awful.

What I realized, when I came home that night, was that I should've trusted her enough to put down the symbols, and take off the tap shoes. Isn't that what friends are for? I could've told her about my sore feet and aching arms. She would've understood. She has felt the same way.

She was kind and understanding. She danced for me and told me of her faults. But I knew that I needed to make a change. To learn the difference between an audience and a friend.

With a friend, I can stop dancing.

With a friend, I can be still.

With a friend, I can even yip and snap.

And, with this realization, comes a vow to do better. To trust more in my friends and family. To resist the urge to fire up the music and dance during those times when I get anxious or life gets stressful.

Who knows. I may even be able to get through a dinner without drawing attention to my blasted, creepy fingers.



*shudder*

They should be under a house with ruby slippers or handing out candy to cute, German siblings with a fondness for bread crumbs.

A Hero

http://mybrothersvoice.wordpress.com/

"Every family needs a hero." Stephen says, his voice cracking with emotion.


We sit in my parent's family room, hanging on his every word.


This is the motto he lives by.


He asks us to look into his eyes, for in his eyes you can see into his very soul. And this is where we will see the many faces that he carries with him. The faces that drive him to share his painful story with anyone that will listen.


He lives to give them a voice.


He smiles, through his tears, because they would want him to.


During our conversation, he frequently looks up to the heavens to talk to his beloved older brother. He seems to check in with him, as if he's making sure that he is telling their story correctly.


He doesn't miss a detail as he begins with the first day they arrived at the Nazi concentration camp, Auschwitz, as a 13 year old boy. The stench of burned flesh repelled him back into his train car, and ashes fell like black snowflakes from the giant ovens that destroyed millions of prisoners deemed "worthless" to the Nazis.

He recalls the shock of witnessing a Nazi shoot and kill his uncle, right in front of his eyes. And, before he could recover from that loss, how he watched while his infant cousin was ripped from his aunt's hands and brutally murdered. Only to see that same aunt killed, while trying to protect her baby.


He tells us how this gruesome murder had them so traumatized that they didn't notice as their Mother was taken from them and forced to another area of the camp. They never got to say goodbye.


They would never see her again.


Still, Stephen would fight the evil that held them prisoner. He calls himself a "part-time prisoner", explaining that he would tell himself that his days at Auschwitz were only a nightmare. And at night, when he could finally close his eyes, he would escape to his dreams. In his dreams, his family was safe and happy. In his dreams, he was free.


He willed himself to survive, if only for the sake of his brother. He would die if he needed to, to keep him safe. He would fight off a solider who raised a large piece of iron that was meant to crush his brother's skull. He fought, and he won.



He would risk beatings to smuggle extra food in for his brother. He took those beatings, and his brother had food.



He would risk death to find his brother when he went missing from their barracks. Only to find a blue-eyed, skeleton where his beautiful brother once was. Stephen prayed to God that his brother might live.


"I ask nothing for myself. But please, God! Save my brother!"


He died in Stephen's arms that day.


All of this he wrote on a makeshift diary, that he again, risked his life to keep. It was his only defense against his captors. He would not let them take his words. He would live, if only to tell his brother's story.



Every family needs a hero.



A hero who thinks nothing of the pain or anguish they may be feeling, but who instead serves tirelessly and loves unconditionally. A hero who fights with every last breath to protect his loved ones. A hero who walks through the valley of the shadow of death, and thanks God that he has legs to walk through it.


Stephen Nasser is that hero.


"I beg you," he pleads, "Go home and hug your family today. You don't know what I would give to run into my Mother's, my Uncle's, my brother's arms. Be the hero that your family needs."


He gets quiet for a minute, and I watch as the tears begin to well up in his eyes.



"Better yet, give them two hugs. Tell them the second one is from me, because my family isn't here to hug."

Stephen Nasser

My hero, my friend.

Panic Button

There was a time when I was grateful for the "Night Owl" that flapped it's little wings inside my head and kept me awake through those endless term papers and closing shifts. Getting by on little to no sleep was a badge of honor for me and many of my similarly sleep deprived friends. Our lives were dedicated to school, work and of course, play. Most of the time my brain was on automatic pilot and there wasn't much time to second guess the decisions I was making. I knew that something (or someone) wonderful would soon be coming my way and it (or he) would be the missing piece of the puzzle that I had been waiting for.


He did come.


He is wonderful.


After a time, two more beautiful puzzle pieces came our way. And with those long awaited pieces came a brand new sensation:


P.A.N.I.C.


This was not a, "First day of school and I notice that the white, jean shorts I was wearing now have fluorescent, green ink all over the backside, courtesy of a leaky highlighter, just in time for me to be called up in front of the whole Freshman science class and introduce myself" brand of panic. (And yes, I do have some form of, "Have a nice summer, 'Green Butt' ", written in my yearbook.........all four years.)


This panic was unlike any panic that I had previously experienced. This was deep down to the depths of my very soul, "You have two of the most precious, most fragile, most important gifts that could ever be given, one wrong move and you could ruin their lives" panic.


I was scared.


I am scared.


With this feeling, came changes to my past nocturnal relationships. The encouraging fluttering that would keep me on task through those long, dark hours, changed to a taunting of sorts. My feathery friend began to turn on me.

"You're doing it wrong." (flap flap)

"No one else is this overwhelmed." (flap flap)

"Everyone else does it better." (flap)


As I lay in bed, willing myself to fall asleep, I was often visited by these destructive phrases. My thoughts would turn to the countless mistakes I'd made that day and the many reasons why I would most certainly fail. When I had tucked the last little one into bed and kissed my husband goodnight, anxiety would begin to take hold and I knew the thoughts that would soon follow.


One night, I was unable to control the stream of hot tears that ran down my face, or the negative reflections from the previous day. It seemed as though I was sentenced to one more night of self loathing. Though my husband was sound asleep next to me, the loneliness I felt was palpable. Panic was poised to take over for the night and I was desperate to avoid it's damaging clutches.


"Oh please!" I prayed, silently. "I just need a hug!"


Not a second had past before I felt Adam's strong grasp around my shoulders. He pulled me toward him, still sound asleep, and protectively clasped his arms together. And that is where he kept me for the remainder of the night.


I gasped at the immediate response to my silent prayer. But more than that, I was filled with gratitude for a loving partner who spends his life trying to shield me from pain and suffering- the dead of night being no exception.


He was everything I ever hoped for when he came to me, more than eight years ago. He arrived all shiny and new, with instructions to "Push in case of emergency". Though many years of his bride slamming on that button have passed, wearing it so thin that there is a groove that perfectly matches my finger, he has never been out of order. He is always there, encouraging me, comforting me, and sometimes, without even knowing it, answering my prayers.

Boy, could I have used him in science class......

"Green Butt" and her "Capt. Awesome"