My other home

Spain has played an integral part in the tapestry that is my life. It has been the backdrop to many memories so powerful that upon triggering them alone I can smell aceite de oliva, café con leche, jamón serrano, and queso manchego. Traveling to Spain is a sensory experience—there is an exquisite beauty, while at the same time rugged grunge, in the sights, the smells, the tastes, and a telling juxtaposition entre lo antiguo y lo moderno.

There was the winter quarter of 2002 when I studied in Pamplona—and found, among other things, my wings, an amistad with four girls that still thrives today, my passion in life and myself. 

Then there was the summer of 2005, my return debut to Spain teaching for the Program I now direct, in which I found my calling as a teacher and my love for la Mancha. 

Los profes in 2006. We were all so different, and that's why we worked.

In 2006, the stars aligned when I returned to Ciudad Real to teach for the Program, and encountered the most incredible group of kids I’ve had the privilege to know (and dearly love) and the most fun group of profes with which to spend a summer. 

In 2007, Jack and I took our honeymoon to Spain and he finally ‘got it’—he came to understand why that country meant so much to me as we toured cities large and small—our two favorites being Zaragoza (home to the Basilica that Pili is named after) and Sevilla. After that trip, we knew two things: if we ever had a daughter, her name would be Pilar (after the Basilica and the patroness of Spain) and if we were so lucky to live a long life together, we would make it a goal to walk El Camino de Santiago. In fact, when we visited Pamplona, we each bought El Camino key chains to keep that dream alive. I have to smile every time I see Miss P pick up my keys. Strangely, but I am convinced it is not a coincidence, the first item she chooses to put in her mouth is always El Camino keychain. After our honeymoon to Spain we had our most difficult goodbye ever in the airport in Barajas—Jack returned to the U.S. as I went to la Mancha to teach. What a bittersweet 8 weeks it was to be apart from one another.

Jack in Zaragoza in 2007, with Pili's namesake in the background.

Then there was 2008.

That summer, before I taught for the Program, Mom toured Spain with me for two weeks. It was the trip of a lifetime for both of us. I could teach my Mom all about the country that had taught me so much. I took her to Ávila, where we saw so many remnants of Mom’s namesake, St. Teresa of Ávila. I took her to Pamplona, my stomping grounds. To Sevilla, to Barcelona. And, of course, I took her to la Basilica in Zaragoza, too. And just like with Jack and I, Mom, too, felt the power of the place—and understood right away what I saw in it so many years before when I first visited it in 2002. I hope Mom and I can make a trip like that again sometime soon. And I certainly hope and pray to la Virgen del Pilar that Pili and I will be able to do the same.

Mom and I in Avila, walled city and home to St. Teresa of Avila.

I put Mom on a plane after two weeks so she could head back to the States, and then waited for my group of students to arrive to Madrid. That summer teaching with the Program was a remarkable one for more reasons than I can count, the most salient because it was my last. The other most salient because it’s when Spain won the Europe Cup—and I learned to appreciate fútbol. I mean real fútbol. I won’t ever forget the memories that summer watching games with my students and the other profes brought. Rather than try and recount them, I will copy and paste a group e-mail I sent to my loved ones while in Ciudad Real that summer. It sheds light on my newfound love for fútbol, and sheds light on what it meant to me to teach for the Program that year, and the three years before it. It goes like this:

**********

July 3, 2008

Subject line: In My Life

Campeones!

Greetings to all,

Never In My Life have I seen anything like what I saw Sunday night.

To commemorate the three week anniversary of our arrival to Ciudad Real, the arid, oven-hot land of Quijote, fútbol, pisto and queso manchego, the Spanish national fútbol team won the Europe Cup Sunday night, defeating Germany 1-0, and ending the cursed 44 year streak of going without a title win.  And we were there.  Sort of.

In a tiny sports pub tucked away on a hidden side street in Ciudad Real, Cesarina and I (the only two teachers on hand) and about 15 of our chicos, found ourselves camouflaged in a sea of red and yellow flags and t-shirts, to witness history in the making, and to see a nation´s hopes answered in the form of a solid, swift kick from the cleat of Fernando Torres, also known as "El Niño," (the kid)
Spain´s beloved fútbol hero, the apple of every Spanish mother´s eye, and the idol of every Spanish boy who wishes to make it big and go from playing the game in the Plaza Mayor to the stadium of Santiago Bernabau in Madrid.  The goal came in the middle of a well-played game on behalf of both teams, a game that got my blood flowing and my heart racing, and I can´t say that I´ve ever been a big fan of fútbol.  But to see this game and see what the win meant for these people--Spain´s curse of not winning a title in 44 years was lifted Sunday night and our chicos were there to see it.

As soon as the end of the game was signaled, madness ensued.  Folks ran out of the bar and piled into the streets as firecrackers and fireworks were set off, the Spanish national anthem blasted from cars and open patios, and everyone, I mean everyone, old and young, made the street their home, parading around with Spanish flags, horns, and noisemakers.  The chicos wanted to fulfill one and only one dream if Spain won: partake in the Spanish tradition of jumping in a fountain in the plaza mayor to celebrate.  Cesarina and I were clearly outnumbered, and the chicos were going to do it whether we were there or not, so we conceded defeat and at least offered to take their pictures and get video of the celebration.  Silly us, did we actually think we were going to get away with not getting tossed into the fountain ourselves? Because after we took everyone´s picture, the kids (once again we were outnumbered) came at us in two different directions, picked us up and plopped us in the fountain, along with the rest of the population of Ciudad Real.  And I didn´t care.  Yes, I was the adult in the situation, and yes, I am their ´director.´  And yes, the water in the fountain was probably never before (and never will be) cleaned, which means I could break out in a rash any moment, but, again, I didn´t care.  I looked around me and realized that a simple 1-0 victory would be icing on the very delicious cake that is this trip for these kids and I smiled bigger than they were smiling because I now know the power of nostalgia and I know that they will look back on that moment as a defining one in their Spanish journey.  As the plaza mayor began to fill to its brim, photojournalists and camera news crews snapped and filmed away, trying their best to capture an unforgettable night.

The party pretty much never ended (it´s still going on, really), so on Monday morning we came in to school confronted with many tired faces, but the excitement was still burning in the kids, especially when they discovered they had made it in not one but THREE newspapers, all pictures of them in the blessed fountain next to the statue of one of Spain´s greatest kings, Alfonso X.  And guess who else made it in the newspaper?  Yours truly, the adult, the director, the "one in charge." So the first thing we did in my class was to head to the kiosk down the street to buy a copy of each paper for the good old memory chest.

In a nutshell, that has been the experience thus far in Ciudad Real: one outstanding memory followed by another, really.  We have been smooth sailing for about two weeks now, but things did not start out so easy...

The kids arrived nearly three weeks ago on June 9th.  If you all recall, around that time, there were pretty wicked storms hitting the midwest, more specifically Indiana and Illinois.  So while 32 students
were supposed to arrive in Barajas on June 9th, only 28 actually made it.  After many, many phone calls and a lot of hassling the airlines, we finally figured out where the other 4 had been re-routed to (from Indy to Cleveland to Newark to Madrid), and found out that their flight from Newark to Madrid was pushed back another day.  So we left Paloma (one of the teachers) behind in Madrid to tend to the remaining four the next day while we took the majority to Ciudad Real to meet their families.

The following day, the four students arrived safely and soundly to Ciudad Real by train.  I was worried these four kids might be traumatized by their experience and arrive to Ciudad Real feeling super
behind, lost and scared.  Seeing the first three kids step down from the train, I was at ease.  But the fourth immediately worried me.  He looked like Chicken Little, waiting for the sky to fall at any moment. He looked nervous, unsure of himself, and like he just wanted to stay on the train and keep going far, far away from that moment.  I became even more worried when his host mother came to greet him and instead of giving her the customary one kiss on each cheek, he backed away and at
my urging to give her kisses he said "No."  Well, okay.  It was then that I came to know him, the boy who would return to the US.

I do not want to go into much detail about him, there is much to say. Let´s just leave it at this: half of my heart breaks for the boy and the other half just doesn´t understand him.  The part of my heart that
breaks is the part that wanted to always hug him, comfort him, tell him he´d be fine if he´d just let go a bit and be able to laugh at himself. The part of my heart that doesn´t understand him is the part that worried that he wasn´t eating (nor at school or at home), that his nose seemed to never

stop bleeding, that he just didn´t "fit" with the program.  I worried about him, we all worried about him, but we knew just what to do when he came to us and said he wanted to go home.  If you had looked into his sad, lost eyes, you´d have agreed to send him home, too, and that´s what we did.  After a little over a week, he went back to the US and I certainly hope he was able to learn something in his few days here.

I learned from him, sadly, that no matter how much you believe in someone, no matter how much you want them to succeed, they cannot do so unless somewhere, somehow they believe it themselves, too.

For a few days, things were going smoothly, then we came to learn an ugly, ugly word here in Spain, and it hasn´t really left us: huelga (which means "strike").  Due to the (you guessed it) high gas prices, many of the truck, bus and taxi drivers have decided to go on strike. Kind of problematic if a fourth of our students arrive to school via bus.  Even more problematic if all the excursions to other cities involve a lengthy bus ride.  Our first excursion it was easy to plan around the strike: we bought 2 euro train tickets to get to our destination, which was only about 25 km away.  The next excursion,
however, brought on a further and more popular destination: Córdoba and Granada, and there was not nearly enough money in our budget to get us to those places in a train.  So we scrambled, looked for solutions, and were at the point of calling in the Marines to haul us out of this desert land and transport us just three hours south when we made an executive decision and decided to move the excursion to a different day.  You see, the "huelga" is only for Tuesdays and Fridays--and Fridays are our excursion days.  And did I mention the "huelga" is only going on in the province of Ciudad Real?  That is to say, if you were to drive across the borders of the province (about 50 miles), you´d be
in another province where the strike is NOT in effect.  Yet buses cannot enter or leave Ciudad Real.  You can imagine how tricky this makes things.  To avoid problems with the strike, this Friday we are headed to Madrid in the train, and the following weekend we have already switched the excursion to Toledo from Friday to Saturday.  Problem solved, right?

Wrong.

As of July 7th, the huelga is taking on more days--going on strike Mon, Tues, Thur and Fri.  We leave Ciudad Real to fly back to the states on July 24th which, as luck might have it, is a Thursday.  So we have already begun the scramble to find a way out of this land and back to Madrid.  Do not get me wrong--I am having a great time and the summer has been a remarkable one, the kids have been super good, all has gone about at smoothly as I could ask for--but come Hell or high water, I am
coming home on July 24th.  Getting home is like any goal you set in life: I´m at the three week/half-way point in the program and I´m thrilled with how things have been going--training hard for the finish,
but not yet counting down the days to come home.  At the same time though, the goal and the finish (i.e., the date I´m coming home) is etched into my brain and it ain´t changin,´ end of story.  So, as I
said before, we´re coming home on time, I just don´t yet know how.

About coming home...I´ve gotten many e-mails asking if this last summer has been living up to my expectations and/or if I was getting to do all that I wanted to.  Funny, I thought you´d never ask...

Though I was 99% sure this was going to be my last summer upon arrival, I am not the kind of person who says ´never,´ so when I left the States, there was still that 1% chance remaining that I might go to Spain again next summer.  But almost immediately when I touched down in Barajas, the 1% chance went away.  It was not a bad feeling, and it certainly does not indicate that I was having a bad time (quite the opposite), it´s just that very soon into my trip (if not immediately) with Mom, I could feel that Spain, a country that I believe has grown to love me as much as I love it, was finding little, subtle ways to let me know it was okay to not come back next year, as if to say to me "I´ll always be here and you are always welcome."  Those little, subtle ways continue to manifest themselves here in Ciudad Real every morning.  I wake up early every morning to take a nice hour walk before classes and it is absolutely beautiful: most mornings I head east towards the sun and catch incredible views of the flat land, which in the distance meets rocky hills, which then, further east, climb into the sky.  It is so flat and so dry that the sky stands out brilliantly, a tapestry of shades of orange, yellow and pink.  When I get to the "Puerta de Toledo" (a roman gate built centuries ago, that leads you to Toledo) it
never fails, I see the same old couple walking arm and arm, not saying a word but communicating in their own way, with their German Shephard, unleashed, on their heels.  They are not going anywhere, their dog is not going anywhere, and the manchegan lanscape is not going anywhere. I could come back in 30 years to the same countryside, and though the couple might be gone, another couple will replace them.  The setting will stay the same and that is what Spain is trying to tell me.  Even if the people change, the place, in its essence, will stay the same.

Even without the hints that this, what at times seems to be more my mother land than my own country, tells me, I can come to the conclusion on my own that, quite simply, this river has run its course.  My time with the program is almost up, it´s just something I can sense.  It´s like when you finally realize it´s time to stop dressing up for Halloween and going out trick-or-treating (which for me was freshman year in high school, a bit late), or when you finally realize it´s no longer appropriate to play drinking games at parties (which was grad school, again, perhaps a bit late--though some of you out there still believe it´s appropriate to play drinking games, more power to you), or when you realize that the hot topic between you and your girlfriends is no longer grad school or reminiscing about undergrad, rather weddings, kids, and mortgage payments (still making this realization, bare with
me).  If you notice a pattern, I seem to be a little late in coming to these previous realizations, but not with this one.  The time has come to fold, to hang it up, to gracefully (ha, Steph does not equal "graceful") bow out.  And having made that decision before I arrived to Spain this year, then being reassured of its rightness in my first days here, have allowed me to enjoy every minute much more than I could have imagined.  The trip hasn´t been about places I´ve visited or monuments I´ve seen.  It´s been about moments, about conversations, about morning walks and Spanish dinners (tapas, wine and cold, cold drafts), about church bells ringing at all hours, about deserted streets during

My 2008 chicos and I at the 'despedida.' Tears and smiles.

siesta.  I have been lucky enough to see some monuments four years in a row that some people would wait a lifetime to see, but the monuments and sights are not what is in my heart, it´s the people I was with when visiting them, or the people I thought of when visiting them, or the song that was running through my head when visiting them.  I´m learning now more than ever that the best memories I can make are the ones that I can connect to memories I already have.  Which is why, before I left, I made the soundtrack to my life so far (I love itunes) and broke it down into four volumes.  It tracks my memories set to music, and on those morning walks I spoke of, I run the spectrum of emotions that songs have the power of bringing to me.  And each song takes me to a different place and time, which triggers other memories, and then others, and all I can do is smile.

As far as the kids go: they are a super, super group.  Don´t worry 2006 kids, they still do not reach your level of "super"--the 2006 kids will forever reign as my favorites.  But I do have to say that factoring in the combination of students, fellow teachers, living situation, and the school that we are in, it´s been my best summer yet in Ciudad Real.

Well, I must be off.  I´ve been writing this e-mail since Monday, in 15 minute segments at a time, so it is time it was sent.  Beware of grammar and spelling errors.  Limited e-mail access does not allow for much editing.

This weekend is a big one for us: tomorrow we go to Madrid, Saturday we go to a bullfight in Ciudad Real, and Sunday Sanfermines coverage begins in Pamplona, so I will be watching.

Happy Fourth of July to all.  My favorite holiday after Christmas, and next year I´ll be home (in every sense of the word) to celebrate it.

Besos,

Steph

"There are places I'll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all....

**********

Reading that e-mail makes me smile from ear to ear. I knew that summer that some big changes were in store for me when I returned to the States from teaching in Spain. Little did I know the changes in store were me being appointed Managing Director of the Honors Program, and becoming pregnant with my little Peanut shortly thereafter. The summer of 2009, just one year after teaching for the Program, I was directing it and feeling little kicks from Mr. Joseph Anthony Goetz to keep me from suffering too much nostalgia. Oh, the joy of reading in hindsight!

So thank you, my dear and sweet Spain, for allowing me to take a trip down memory lane tonight. And thank you for being so instrumental in helping me find my way over the years, for helping me to forge a half-Spanish identity that I hold dear to this day—my time in your unbelievable country has left a profound mark on me and I cannot wait to return. How I wish I could be there with you to celebrate and to jump in a fountain. Congrats, campeones de Europa. ¡Que viva España! 

The kiddos and I celebrate Spain's win. Note the kiddos in their Spain uniforms.

This one's for the dudes...

A number of stories have been shared with me about conversations that were had at our wedding over the past five years since we got hitched. I always smile when I hear them (I’ve yet to hear a bad one…so far), and consider them to be little gifts to remind me of the joy brought together on December 9, 2006.

One of my favorite stories is the one of my Dad and Aunt Julie finally making peace. My Dad is an amazing man. My Aunt Julie is an amazing woman. They just never got along, even when my parents were married. The thing about my Aunt Julie is that you love her or you don’t. She is fiercely loyal to those who are loyal to her, she’s driven, she speaks her mind, and she’s full of beans and spunk. She makes no apologies about who she is, and I happen to think she’s fantastic. Did I mention she’s a Leo, just like Miss P? Uf, we might be in trouble. Did I also mention that Dad is very much the same way? Anyway, Julie’s strong personality can sometimes be tough to go up against, even more so for an in-law. So she and Dad were never the best of friends, and that’s probably putting it mildly.

Apparently, on the night of my wedding, both Dad and Julie’s hearts softened towards one another and they shared a moment. The story goes Julie told Dad that she thought he’d done a great job raising me. Dad responded that it takes a whole community to raise a child, essentially giving credit to Julie in the role she had played in my upbringing, too. Peace. 

Dad was right, and it’s fitting that I only understand this now that I have children of my own. It does take a community to raise a child, and if you are raising a girl, it takes a community of strong females, but especially strong males. We are finding out more and more in our culture just how important the presence of fathers and father figures are in raising a girl to respect and love herself. Daddy-os and other strong males play a pivotal role in the development of a girl’s psyche. Tina Fey said it best in her hilariously poignant book, Bossypants: “Let’s review the cost-free techniques that we’ve learned so far for raising an achievement-oriented, obedient, drug-free, virgin adult: Calamity, Praise, Local Theater and flat feet. Another key element is: “Strong Father Figure/Fear Thereof.” Nicely said, Tina.

I consider myself a very happy and fairly well-adjusted adult female—though it’s taken, well, a lifetime to get here. And for that I have the following community of men to thank on this Father’s Day:

Mr. Bouman. You were the first person to teach me it was not just okay, but cool, to be an adult nerd. I hope you take that with the spirit with which it was written: admiration and respect. While I didn’t care much for the content of British Lit, I admired my teacher of it beyond words. I mean, who else has the courage to do a medieval rap of the Canterbury Tales in a high school classroom full of sophomore girls who are too cool for school? You instilled in me a passion for humanities, a hatred for Beowulf, and a love of literature. Even though I didn’t always like what we were reading (sorry, British Lit is not my thing, Mr. B), I appreciated that you taught me how to analyze what I was reading—to see the meaning beyond the meaning. I also respected that you were at nearly all of our basketball games, honoring our talents out of the classroom just as much as our merits in the classroom. It has been one of the highlights of my career so far to go back to MMH and talk to your class about what I do—in doing so, you valued my choice to follow my heart in my career, and not the dollar signs. I hope that my children, especially my girl, have a teacher like you in their future. Thanks for being an inspiration.

Mr. Bley. “Work, now, work!” That mantra will never leave my head. You (along with Ms. Huismann) taught me the hard-nosed discipline and work ethic that one can only learn from committing oneself to an activity wholeheartedly. You coached us with a tenacity that got your blood boiling on a daily basis, but that drove us to success in three of my four years on MMH’s varsity team. But what I took away from you as my coach on the court paled in comparison to what I took away from you off the court. Thank you for teaching me how to be magnanimous. And thank you for making me look up what that word meant as a dopey 15 year old freshman playing varsity.

Uncle Chris. I know that as the years have gone on, we don’t see each other as much and lead different lives, but you have always had a special place in my heart. I have such fond memories of hanging out with you and Aunt Julie growing up on Childs Avenue, including the impressive fart sandwich you and Julie made, with me right in the middle. And there is one thing I will never forget that you said to me at a very impressionable age. I must have been in first or second grade, the period of time when I was a butterball/chub-chub, still hanging on to my baby fat and just learning to feel self-conscious about it. I was at Mamaw’s house agonizing over the fact that the next day in gym class they were going to be weighing each student (I don’t remember why this practice was even in place…how traumatizing!). You told me to remember that what matters about a person is what’s on the inside. Then you told me you’d love me no matter what the number on that stupid scale was. Even today on my fat days, when I look in the mirror and wonder what in the hell happened to my body after my two kids wreaked havoc on it, I hear your voice in my head and remember that it’s what’s inside that counts. Thank you for saying that to me and really meaning it. Those words are hard to come by nowadays, so I’m grateful you uttered them and that they echo in my mind still.

Everyone needs an Uncle Chris in their lives.

Pawpaw. You are the funniest and most quick-witted man I know. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must be for you now, for your mind to be working faster than your mouth and to not be able to express yourself as you would like; for your body and your motor skills to abandon you and have to be taken care of like a child. But know that every time I see you and look at you, that’s not who I see. Instead, I see the Pawpaw that helped raise me, the one who always put a smile on my face when I saw him, despite whatever plans you had to embarrass me (do you remember driving me to school at Dulles in that maroon Omni with all of the Wizard of Oz paraphernalia on it?). I see the Pawpaw who introduced me to some of my favorite things as a child and teenager: the Wizard of Oz (I still can’t watch that movie without thinking of your lessons on courage and my Wizard of Oz-themed birthday party in which you made ALL of us dress up as a character from the movie); the 12 days of Christmas, The Other Wiseman, planting the tree downtown and about a zillion other Christmas traditions; Neapolitan ice cream (Mamaw used to buy the square blocks of it, and you’d just take it out of the square and dump it on a plate in the middle of the kitchen table for us to eat from—I never touched the strawberry, but loved the chocolate, still true to this day); Cold Mountain (you used to talk about that book every winter with me). 

Four generations of love. All because Mamaw said 'yes!'

You are the only grandpa that I have ever known. As Lauren said about her grandpa: 'Having you as my only grandpa my whole life is better than having two lesser men.' Truer words were never spoken. I am so glad that my children have known your love. Thank you for making me laugh always, and for being, along with Mamaw, the heart and soul of our big Italian brood. Please don’t ever stop reminding me that all of the craziness that is our family would have never been “had she not said ‘yes!’” And please know that if we ever get brave enough to have another child, and if that child is a boy, his middle name will be Albert after the most gentle and faith-filled man I know—you.

Bill. We’ve had a long, hard road. Ours is a relationship that can be best compared to a rich wine: it has gotten better with the passing of time (and a side of Manchego cheese with some olives). In the beginning, I knew you as a strict stepparent, whom it felt like I could never please (though I always tried my damndest!...bringing the keg up the basement stairs comes to mind here!). When you came into my life, I was so young. And not at all cool with you taking up so much of my mom’s time. Poor guy, you always had an uphill battle with me—I didn’t understand my jealousy of and acted out a lot in response. I didn’t understand why you were so strict with me (you were just trying to teach me responsibility and accountability) and thought you were just out to get me. As I got older, I opened up to you more, but still kept you at a distance just to be safe, still unsure if I was willing to let you in all the way. 

It was not until I was engaged and was able to look back on my childhood and teenage years with greater perspective and some distance that I was able to see how integral you were in shaping my path to adulthood. I have much to thank you for. Thank you for making Mom happy and for showing me (along with her) what a happy relationship should be like. Thank you for never trying to replace my Dad—as a Dad yourself, you know Dads cannot be replaced in their daughters’ hearts. Thank you for pushing me to be an independent woman—in my thinking, in my career and in my finances—I’m thankful for those lessons every day (and so is Colleen, I am sure of it) and would not be where I am in my professional life without your guidance and support. Thank you for being instrumental in every major decision I’ve ever made in my life—heaven knows I wouldn’t have gone to Mercy, Spain, Ecuador or grad school without you both advocating on my behalf and pushing me all the while. You are a fantastic man, the most well-intentioned individual I know. Thank you for loving me as you would your own daughter, even if I resisted some of the time—I never meant to and I certainly don't resist now. We are at our best yet nowadays and every year that passes, we grow closer and closer and understand each other more and more.  

And of course, Dad. I’ve already got tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat, afraid that my words to you will not do justice. I’m your girl and you’re my Dad…what is left to say? And more importantly, what could be better than that? We never really lived together my whole life after you and Mom got divorced—so that meant I looked forward to all of our time together, no matter how much or how little. Zoo visits on Sunday (with trips to Wendy’s on the way there—single with cheese, ketchup only! You used to tell me I was going to turn into a tomato from eating so much ketchup.)—we knew that place backwards and forwards. To this day I could get myself around the Cincinnati Zoo blindfolded thanks to our weekly trips there. Wednesday night visits during the week—you’d play sneaky Pete on the way over the Big Mac bridge and we’d have dinner, watch The Wonder Years, and we’d play ‘Riddly diddly I-dee-dee’ or spelling games on the way back home to the west side. Occasionally in the spring and summer time, we would see fireworks on the way home if the Reds would win their ball games or hit a home run. We listened to WEBN or 700 WLW, windows down. Christmas time—our visits to Larry and Doug’s, checking in on your Krogers’ stores, going to you and Gaile’s in Loveland for schnecken, cheesy potatoes and mimosas. I cherished those times with you, I hope you know.

In high school you never, ever missed a basketball game. I loved to hear your voice (“Good defense, number thirty-four”—you always called me by number so I knew it was you) encouraging me, or getting on the refs’ asses if they made a bad call. In college you might have questioned some of my choices, but like a good Dad, you always let me make them for myself and ultimately supported them. I remember when you took me to visit Pitt when I was applying to grad schools—one of our many road trips together (remember going to Washington, DC when I was in eighth grade? One of my favoritest vacations ever, and perhaps my only with just you and I. Remember going to visit OU and our car broke down on the way back? That was my first trip to Athens and I thought of that trip every day when I was on campus during my four years there). Shortly after arriving, I had a brief impromptu interview in your presence, in which I had to speak only Spanish. Had you not been there, I would have panicked, but I knew you’d have my back no matter what, and that gave me all the assurance I needed. I remember seeing you beaming out of the corner of my eye as the interview was taking place. When I was finished, you told the man interviewing me how impressed you were that I could carry myself with such confidence in Spanish. That was one of my proudest moments as an adult. Similarly, when I got my first job out of grad school and you told me how proud you were of me over the phone…I blushed. A little girl (no matter how grown) lives to hear things like that from her Dad. I’ll never forget you saying that to me, even though it was just one of our routine little telephone calls.

My Dad in his greatest role yet: Pappy

One of the days in which I was proudest of you was on my wedding day. You faced a lot of heartache on that day, but one would never know it the way you courageously walked me down that aisle (with that beautiful bracelet on that you gave me only nights before), gave me away to a man that I know you respect, like, and love, even though I’m sure it was the hardest thing you’ve ever done, toasted to our life together with your gregarious and charismatic nature, danced with me to our dad and daughter anthem, “Be Ever Wonderful,” and, yes, made peace with Aunt Julie. You were perfect on that day, just perfect. Have I ever told you that?   

Dad, thank you. Thank you for being honest with me on your own time about the things I needed to know, I respect you for it all the more. Thank you for for passing along to me your smile, it's my favorite part of me and it's directly from you (and I think P inherited it, too!). Thank you for introducing me to Earth, Wind and Fire. Thank you for not ever feeling threatened by Bill’s presence in my life—a lesser man would have been, and with good reason, as Bill was and still is a great influence on me. Thank you for always touching up the tattoo that reads ‘Steph’ with a star and rainbow over your heart—how sweet is that? Thank you for showering me with love and affection—I love getting big bear hugs from you, and smooches, too. Thank you for always sending me a card for every single holiday, never forgetting a one, and for signing it in one of your signature ways—either ‘I love you this much ßà’ or ‘from the man who loved you first and always will.’ Thank you for being you. Be ever wonderful, Dad, in your own sweet way. And stay as you are.  

So, that’s the community of men I have to thank for helping make me who I am. For the rest of you out there, dads or not, don’t underestimate the impact you could have on one’s life. Especially on the life of a girl who is simply trying to find her way.

Best. Dad. Ever. 

P.S.—Did you all really think I’d forget to mention Jack on Father’s Day? To the father of my children and (yes, here comes the cliché) the love of my life—I chose you as my partner because you are the combined package of all the best qualities of the men who influenced my life that I’ve listed above—you have great faith, passion, a sense of humor not to be matched, tenacity, a heart of gold, and a charisma that still captivates me (and our kiddos) every day. Thanks for being in the front seat of this rollercoaster ride with me. And thanks for choosing me back. 

Nonna's Castle

I am convinced that in another life, I was born, lived and died by the sea. There is no other explanation for the intense connection I feel to el mar—the way it sounds, smells, feels as it washes all the stress off my body the further and further I succumb into the waves, her gentle hands.  

I have always loved the water and never really felt like I was on vacation unless I was—you guessed it—on or near water. I’ve always needed to hear the waves, the seagulls, the lull that even still water somehow seems to provide to truly relax. Cádiz, San Sebastian, Toronto, Canoa, Lisbon—some of my favorite places on earth and the one thing they’ve all got in common: water. It is no wonder, then, that I find myself on the eve of our vacation wondering when I will see the water again. It’s never soon enough.

It is also no wonder that I’ve come to love and treasure so much our family’s vacation spot, St. Pete Beach, in what Joseph likes to call ‘Nonna’s Castle.’

The beach at Nonna's Castle. Life is always good here.

I’ve been coming to St. Pete Beach to vacation with my Mom and Bill for as long as I can remember—Colleen and I used to make up rockin’ dance routines in the pools of every condo Mom and Bill rented. We always had crushes on the British boys who used to vacation here with their families and we would flirt with servers who were twice our age in hopes of kindling a summer romance, mostly to no avail (the Brits always liked Colleen, though, with her pretty brownish red hair, her cute freckles, her awesome bangs). We had our favorite restaurants we frequented—with ice cream joints to boot—and always loved to shop for chintzy shell jewelry at St. John’s Pass. We loved to play putt-putt at all the touristy courses with waterfalls and Easter Island-looking statues (what a rip off!), and loved to go to the movies by ourselves at Tyrone Square Mall. I can remember we saw ‘A League of Their Own’ there together, chowing down on popcorn and Twizzlers, thinking we were so cool entering the theater by ourselves. Ohhh, what grown-ups we were.

Finally, in 1998, after testing out nearly every major resort on Gulf Boulevard, Mom and Bill bought what would become Nonna’s Castle some years later—a condo on the 5^th floor of a high-rise overlooking Blind Pass, an Intracoastal Waterway. Equipped with a pool and its own private beach, and within walking distance of some seriously authentic beach bars (namely Woody’s Waterfront, which happens to be my maiden name), the condo was, well, just what the doctor ordered. Still is.

My memories of the condo are far too many to relay. But there are certainly some highlights worth mentioning.

Thanksgiving 2002. A visit to the condo after the quarter at OU ended was much needed, as the Fall 2002 quarter was probably my roughest personally up until that point. I remember being in a relationship that needed to end, I just didn’t have the courage to do it. When I finally did some months later, I can credit Mom and I’s long walks on the beach that Thanksgiving trip that really planted the seeds of my thinking. I remember Mom saying “Steph, should you really be working this hard at a relationship?” Coming from one of the strongest women I know, who was once divorced herself and happily remarried, the woman who showed me more than anyone the importance of working at your marriage, that was a real wake-up call. More than once I have thought that the answers to the world’s toughest questions could be solved by a long walk on the beach, along the shore.

The October '06 trip

October 2006. My Mom, aunts, cousin Maria and I visited the condo to celebrate Mom’s 50^th and have my bachelorette party. There was lots of fun in the sun, stories being retold, and the intermittent calls from the guys back home who were enjoying Jack’s bachelor party at Keeneland in Lexington. My Aunt Toni was pregnant with my cousin then, and we were all emotional and sentimental because I was getting married. Add a few drinks to the mix and we were a slobbery crying mess of a riot. I remember giving each of my aunts and my mom a picture frame with a picture of me and each of them in it—along with a note explaining to them that no matter how old and ‘married’ I got, that I would always need them and would always love them. Little did I know that the older I got, the more and more I would come to rely on their strength and support.

December 2006. Jack and I drove to the condo for our mini-honeymoon. Our ‘real’ honeymoon was to take place in Spain in the summer of 2007, but we wanted to escape right after our December 9^th wedding. The whole way down, we did nothing but recall every minute of our wedding, from start to finish. What a great road trip, one I will never forget. As we approached the Pinellas Bayway, I got really nervous, panicked that Jack wouldn’t like our vacation place. A few beers and wings later at Woody’s, and a few days of getting acquainted with the place, Jack was won over. I remember looking out on him from the kitchen as he was leaning on the patio rail, looking out to the sea—he was at home. *Sigh.* It was the perfect way to start off our married life together, and was also the kick-off of our new tradition of going to the condo together right before Christmas every year.

Honeymooners: our December '06 trip

December 2008. It was during this trip to the condo that we brought Joseph home as a souvenir. Need I tell more?  

December 2009. First trip to the condo as a family of three, and Joseph’s first time on a plane. Our little man was just three months old, and we were still new parents, afraid to go anywhere with him for fear of him having a crying fit or for fear of there not being a changing table to diaper him if need be. Rookies! Now we traipse the kids along even if they are melting down and there ain’t no shame in changing them on a chair in the restaurant if the restaurant doesn’t provided the courtesy of a changing table. But how fragile we were then as parents! And how in love we were with our new son! That trip, our car broke down one night just after crossing the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. Holy smokes, talk about freakin’ out—thank goodness we made it across the bridge (you know what I’m talking about if you are familiar with the Sunshine Skyway). All three of us kept calm and managed to get back home to the condo safely in the back of a taxi that reeked of booze and illegal substances, driven by a man who did not know the brake pedal. Never ever was I so glad to see the condo as I was that night!

The October '10 trip: M, M and J poolside. What a life!

October 2010. A return trip with Mom, the aunt farm, Joe, and cousins Michael (who was in my aunt’s belly four years before) and Maria. It was then that the condo was dubbed ‘Nonna’s Castle.’ To four year old Michael, the high-rise seemed like a castle, and the name stuck. To this day, when Joe sees the Walt Disney Castle flash on the screen before Toy Story and Cars (the two movies allowed in the rotation), he says “That’s Nonna’s Castle!” I do not have the heart to tell him it’s not—or maybe I should just let him think it is, that way we’ll never have to take him to the dreaded Disney World and we can save a year’s worth of college tuition in not going.

May 2011. Our last trip to the Castle as a family of three. This was our babymoon (with Joe in tow) before P came along. We had a blast—our first few days we spent the three of us, then the last few days, Nonna and Papoo joined us. I wore a bikini and it was AWESOME. Never before had wearing a bikini felt so liberating. I didn’t have to suck it in because I was preggers. And I felt like I was floating every time I got into the ocean or the pool—a preggy woman loves nothing more than to feel weightless. I loved baring my belly in the sun—and I’m convinced that’s why P has rockin’ highlights.

May '11: Miss P bakin' in the oven

September 2011. A return trip with Mom, the aunt farm, Joe, cousins Michael and Maria and a month old Miss P. P and Joe were both champion travelers, but ‘vacation’ with two kiddos was quite different than with one. Thank the Lord for the arms of my aunts, who all bought me some much needed sleep. Fun in the sun? Not so much, it rained almost the whole time. But nothing like spending some time in the company of strong women to make me feel like I COULD be a mother of two under two—up until then I was questioning myself. My aunts have always been more like sisters to me than aunts—and they feed my soul like no one can. Can’t wait for Tallarigopalooza, SPB October 2012 edition. Is it appropriate to start a countdown yet?

May 2012. Here we are, vacationing with Joe and Miss P. It’s hard to believe that a year ago we were last here together as a family and waiting to see if the Jumpin’ Bean in my belly was a Pili or a Jude. Now that she’s on the outside, it’s impossible to think she could have been anything other than a Pili. As with last year, we spent the first few days as a family of four, then Nonna and Papoo joined us (P.S., in our humble opinions, there is no better way to family vacation than with the grandparents—they’re always up for watching the kids a time or two so we can sneak out on dates). While on out on our date night last night, Jack told me that as he looked down on P, Joe and I at the pool from the balcony the other day, he was a bit sad knowing that as each day ends, the kiddos get older and all growed-up, and we’ll never get to go back to how it was before. Such is the great joy—and the great sorrow—of being parents: we get to experience the miracle of them growing older, reaching milestones, coming in to their own, but in turn they lose a bit of their youth, their innocence, their dependence on us with each passing day. So bittersweet, but a feeling I wouldn’t trade for anything.

May '12: Goetz Fam of Four

As I rocked P to sleep on the patio the other night, in the dark and hearing the waves crash on the rocks below, singing to her my favorite lullaby—‘You Are My Sunshine’—and as the words echoed out in the patio and eventually drifted to the sea, I smiled to myself thinking how I’ve evolved since the evolution of the condo to Nonna’s Castle. My memories here are a reminder of the person I have become. And the only constant in my many visits to the Castle has been my old friend, el mar. She’s always there, helping me to find tranquility and peace.

Until soon, old friend, until real soon…

Reunited...and it feels so good.

At long sweet last, estamos de vacaciones. We are on vacation.

Every day for the last three days, I’ve napped with one of the kiddos, gone to either the beach or the pool (or both), been on a nice walk, fallen asleep right next to Miss P with her baby’s breath in my face, and had some ridiculously long snuggle time with both kiddos upon waking up—no hurry to have breakfast, no hurry to get out the door. One of the days I had Dunkin’ Donuts. One of the days I slept in (8:30!). One of the days we went to Barnes and Noble and had nothing but time to look around. I’ve only showered once. My hubby and I have even had some lengthy conversations. This is like a real slice of heaven on earth for me.

But my favoritest part about vacation so far has been reuniting with my sweet Joe.

Sometime around the beginning of the year, Jack and I decided that I would be the designated P putter-to-bedder, and he would do the nighttime routine with Joe. Up until then, we would each do a week with Joe, then a week with P (which included middle of the night feedings and wake-ups), Joe, then P. Since I was no longer nursing, there was nothing preventing Jack from getting up to do the middle of the night duties with P—and plus, Joe is at his sweetest and most tender during bedtime, and I didn’t want to miss that.

Well, Joe began to act up for me at bedtime (i.e., bedtime would carry on for forty minutes after prayers and kisses, with his many visits to our room just to make sure we were still there) and P turned in to Miss FussButt for Jack (i.e., grumped her way into sleep and then would wake up soon after he put her down). Though neither of us was keen on giving up bedtime with the other kiddo permanently, it did seem to make the most sense (and get our kiddos the most sleep) if Jack and Joe teamed up and if Miss P and I teamed up.

This little arrangement has left Miss P and I with some good quality time together, especially during the many evenings she wakes up just to say hello, play peek a boo, and refuse to go back to sleep. It’s also left me pretty much of a crab during the day—and, naturally, a less patient Mommy. Two and a half year old testing-his-limits and not listening well Joe + low on sleep Mommy=many contentious moments between the two of us. “Joseph Anthony, be gentle with your sister.” “Joseph, take the spatula out of your mouth.” “Joe, sit right on your chair and face forward.” All likely to be contested with either a flat-out “No!” or a non-response as he eeeeever soo slooowly works on repeating the exact same action that I’ve asked him to stop—he knows I am watching him out of the corner of my eye and he keeps on doing what he’s doing anyway, which just adds fuel to the fire. Boogers. It’s a lose-lose for us both. I praise him often, truly I do, and I always tell him that I love him—many times in a day—but his typical toddler tantrums on top of my little sleep are a recipe for, yup, disaster.

We both needed a break from the grind, and thankfully we’ve gotten it.

Who could say no to this face?

Saturday we woke up to bright sunshine and warmth in St. Pete Beach. Since Jack isn’t the biggest fan of hanging out in the sun and I love it, I lathered Joe and I up with some sunscreen while Joe packed up his bucket and beach gear and I packed up the backpack with plenty of liquids, and out we set for the beach. On our walk there, Joe asked, “Where we goin’, Mom?” (yes, he’s taken to calling us Mom and Dad a lot recently, also part of his recent two-going-on puberty stage) I told him we were going to the beach and he said, “Can we look for lizards on our way there?” “Of course,” I said. And I knew we were on the road to healing. 

A man on a serious mission: to the beach

The beach was a big old time. We dug in the sand, buried our toes, looked for shells, and watched sea gulls prance and dance on the shore. Joe led me by the hand to the rocks from which fishers cast their lines and asked a million questions: “Why are the rocks hot, Momma?” Why is this one rough?” “Is this one smooth?” “What are under the rocks, Mom?” I did my best to play teacher and give my little curious student answers. Then I asked him if he wanted to get in the ocean with me, to which he replied no. I knew he’d just need time to warm up to the idea so we went back to the sand and tinkered around some more. Finally, he dropped his shovel and walked up to the water, let the foam reach his toes, and scurried back to our towels. Then he went back to the water again, this time let the water cover his feet, and giggled the whole way back to our towels. I asked him if he wanted me to hold his hand and walk into the water. He said yes, and in doing so he made my heart burst. A simple little gesture, but it meant the world to me. He put all of his trust back in me—or, more likely, he never lost his trust in me, I just lost trust in myself as his mom. We walked into the water, hand in hand, and jumped around in the ocean. He thought it was hilarious that our feet kept sinking in the sand. And he thought it was the coolest that the water was so clear we could see little fishies swimming through our legs. There was no camera to capture our moment, so I took a mental snapshot instead, and added that feeling to the many that I wish I could bottle up and store in my closet for the days that are not so idyllic.

Oh, to capture his innocence. And curiousity! 

After our beach outing, it was time to put the kids down for a nap. It is one of my most favorite pastimes to nap with Joe on the weekends, but due to a pretty hectic recent weekend schedule, I’ve forfeited my naps with him to work. So naturally I jumped on the opportunity to snuggle with Joe and sleep. We both nodded off half-way in to our first book, and woke up three hours later. As he stirred awake, I asked, “How was your nap, buddy?” “Good,” he whispered. “I’m ready for a chocolate covered banana,” he said, referencing the Curious George book we fell asleep reading.

Later that night as we were heading out the door to dinner, Jack, P and Joe were waiting for me outside the front door. I overheard Jack say to Joe, “What do you think, should we leave without Mommy?” He was quick to defend me, “No, Daddy, no, we are NOT going to leave without Mommy!” My little man coming to my rescue, God love him. Another smile.

Since our first day, we’ve had our moments—warm and fuzzy ones, and also some less-than-stellar ones—but we are both learning. There are some moments when I am teacher, but most of the time I am student. Joe teaches me patience. Joe teaches me forgiveness. Joe teaches me unconditional love. All things I thought I knew, but never knew like I know them now. Thank you, my little man, for helping me find, de nuevo, my way.

As for Jack and P—they are reconnecting, too. She is all about her Daddy since being on vacation. She wants him to parade her around the pool. She wants to climb all over him on the floor. She wants him to feed her bottles. She wants to snuggle with him whenever she wakes up from a nap or for the day. Jack, like I am with Joe, is taking it all in, enjoying it while it lasts, and not asking any questions. It warms my heart to see those two back in the fold. One of my favorite scents in the whole wide world is Jack—he always smells so good, no matter how much he has been sweating or how long it’s been since his last shower (it’s not fair!)—but the one scent I love more than Jack is Jack on P or Joe. Daddy’s love and cuddles on my kids is the best, the kind of smell that I could fall asleep or wake up to any day.

Joe, acting like a flamingo while on my shoulders, and Mom, happy to oblige

Yesterday all four of us were down at the pool and we ran into a couple that we see here periodically. The last time we saw them was almost a year ago, when we were pregnant with P. They asked us if we were ready for our third. We gave our typical answer: maybe once we start getting some sleep! They have two children of their own who are now pre-teens, and thus gave a knowing nod and empathetic smile. Then the mother said, “I wish I had the chance to be a mother all over again, knowing what I know now: I’d complain less, and enjoy it more.” At that, she invited her 11 year old boy on her lap and gave him big hugs and kisses. He didn’t shy away. I looked at Joe in that moment, who was, of course, begging me to catch him for the hundredth time as he jumped in to the pool. “Again, Momma, again!”

“You got it, kiddo,” I said, very happy to oblige. 

Happy Mother's Day to Me!

Ha llegado la hora. The time has arrived.

Blogging has been on the horizon for quite some time. I love to write. Always have, hopefully always will. I’ve been told more than once in my life as a journalist, as a director of a study abroad program, as a daughter, as a mother, “Never underestimate the power of a good story.” I’ve always loved to tell stories with my words—and my favorite story to tell has often been my own. As an undergrad at OU, I faithfully kept a journal through break-ups, family drama, good times with friends, stints abroad, road trips, Palmerfests (!), Halloweens in Athens, you name it. As an M.A. student at IU, I moved from less journal writing to redacting epic e-mails during my summers abroad, my painful semesters of ready theory, transcribing data phonetically and memorizing studies that I may or may not ever even remember reading. Once out of school, my epic e-mails were published less and less. I began taking pictures more and more, as I relied on images to tell my story. I began to rely on music to chronicle life’s events, as I burned CD compilations to reflect my feelings and state of mind. But while a picture can paint a thousand words, a picture still needs a caption. It still needs words. And while music can take you to a place and time, it conjures up feeling that, yes, requires words to express. Words, words, words, it’s no wonder I am a linguist at heart.

So yes, I’ve always valued stories and words—now it’s just a matter of finding the time to write that’s the kicker. When I used to hear people say “I just can’t find the time to X, Y, Z,” I would always take mental note and say to myself (never out loud!), “No, you don’t make the time to X, Y, Z.”  Then Real Life (i.e., post- education life) took hold—I married a wonderful man, took a fulfilling (but taxing) job and gave birth to two pretty awesome kiddos. And suddenly I understood, related to, became the person who says ‘I just can’t find the time to X, Y, Z.” Who has time for X, Y, Z? If you do, don’t tell me. Or at least tell me gently, nicely, and after an appropriate amount (three glasses? a bottle?) of wine.   

What does all of this have to do with Mother’s Day? I’ll get there, bear with me.

Leg 2 of our ideal trip: St. Brieuc, France

Lately I’ve not been the best mother. Or best wife. Or best professional. Let’s just be honest, here: I haven’t been my best self. In late March, my husband and I came back from a remarkable trip to France and Germany. I was there for work, polishing up and maintaining important relationships abroad, and he tagged along. He had never been, and he loved it. I had been there, and I loved it even more in his presence. The food, the scenery, the people—the time together, talking, reconnecting. It was just what I needed professionally, which was what I expected. A beautiful, but unintended side effect, was that it was just what I needed personally, too. The hubster and I fell in love all over again, got to explore new territory together, got to reminisce about our last five married years together—and celebrate his 35^th birthday. The ideal trip. Then, we returned and all Hell broke loose. 

Soon after we got home, the kiddos both got sick, recovered, and got sick again. Work picked up for me as we headed into our busy season, and work went down the tubes for the hubby as the direction of his lab took an unexpected turn. It was a cycle a bit like this: get to work late because sick kiddos kept us up, cram as much in during the work day as possible, often forgetting to eat lunch until much too late, rush to get kids from daycare, do the normal night routine and get kids to bed, then get to work from home to catch up on what we couldn’t do during the day, stay up with the kids part of the night because they were sick, repeat cycle. The lines between work and home became blurred to the point that even though I was physically present with the kids at dinner, my mind was making to-do lists for work AND home so that I wouldn’t forget anything. Result: I was fulfilling all of my roles, but none of them well. I found myself checking my e-mail on my dumb phone (I refuse to call it a smart phone, because it’s making us dumb) while putting my baby girl to bed, talking to my hubby during our treasured twenty minutes alone but not really listening, ignoring the voice in my head that was telling me to take a bath instead of a shower to give myself some me time before I crashed and burned. Yuck. They were a few months that I don’t care to repeat again. All felt like it spiraled out of control and it left me feeling icky all over. We’re still coming out of that funk now—we’re over the hump, I can feel it, but still not fully out from under that cloud.

All the while I was asking myself how I used to handle stress before Real Life began. I needed not think too long to remember that I used to do two things to keep ME on track: 1) write and 2) exercise. When I asked myself really and truly how long it had been since I’d done either on any kind of regular basis, I felt myself not having to count in months, but rather in years. No wonder my head was a bunch of clouded thoughts running together and my life was following suit.

The solution became pretty clear: I needed some time to myself. And I’m talking more than 10 minutes in the shower, more than the 10 minute drive to work once every two weeks when I have my 8:00 meeting and my family can’t get out the door so I drive in on my own, more than the 10 minutes I spend cleaning up the downstairs to make it somewhat presentable the next morning (for you, you might ask? Good question.). I mean real time.

And that’s what this has to do with Mother’s Day, folks. All day yesterday, I was trying to figure out how I would want to spend my day. Just right before bed I figured it out, but couldn’t share it with my hubby as he was sound asleep on our son’s trundle bed. He was, after all, just as tired as I. So this morning, I woke up (at 8:15, I might add—my blessed husband let me sleep in after Miss P got up just once last night), and went downstairs to make my request.

I was greeted by Joe, who told me in his sweetest, most demure voice “Happy Mother’s Day, Momma.” As the smile across my face grew, the smile across his grew, too. He likes when I’m a happy, well-rested Momma, which made me feel even more confident in my choice for how to spend the first part of my day. I kissed Joe, kissed P, then told the hubby that I wanted to spend the first three hours of my day…by myself. I told him I’d be back before lunch. He looked at me, kind of confused, and said, “OK.” He gave me a bit of a hard time first (I would not expect anything less, and if you knew my hubby, you wouldn’t either), but when he saw I was serious, he stopped kiddin’ around and wished me well.

I knew right where to go—to the Bakehouse for some breakfast and time to spill my thoughts on paper. I chose this over having a nice workout because my body is just not ready for that yet, and neither is my head. And here I am, one and a half hours into my three hours, and I feel like a brand new person. Heck, I may even head home early. That’s the funny thing about getting what you need—once you get it, you don’t need as much of it as you thought you did.

So, Mommas out there—take some time today for you. I mean, really for you. Mothers are supposed to be selfless and love unconditionally—there is no question that we are, and that we do. But we are also human and can’t ignore our own needs. We can’t run on empty, and we can’t run well even on fumes. I’m not sure what I’ll do when I don’t have a day that I can proclaim my needs and how I want to address them—that’s the next challenge. But I do know that I’ve finally owned up to needing some time for me, and that’s the first step towards making it happen, right? Right?

Before signing off, some special thanks need to go out to some special people on this Mother’s Day.

Mom and I in Seville, Spain. Trip of a lifetime.

First, thanks to my mom. For what? For everything. Thanks for being an inspiration. For being a strong, working mom, independent and loving, who always made time for me and always knew—and still knows—just what I need. For reassuring me and supporting when I need it and for questioning me when I need it, too. I’ve always said it and I’ll say it again: if I can be half the mother you were to me to my kids, I will have succeeded. Thanks for being my constant, and my best friend. Thanks to you and for Dad to loving one another so much you decided to bring me into this world…you not only gave me the gift of life, you’ve been instrumental—no, the driving force—in helping me figure out just how to live it. I’m so glad God (and la Virgen del Pilar, of course!) gave us Pili so that I could be on the mother’s side of a love between a mother and a daughter. Being on the daughter’s side has been a joy; being on the mother’s side has been a miracle.

Thanks to my hubby. The fact that he honored my Mother’s Day request without question (and with a little bit of razzing) shows you how awesome he is. He is a modern daddy-o and hubby—often takes the night shift, is a great cook, is my equal and my greatest companion. I love him more than words can say, and would not want to be on this crazy rollercoaster ride with anyone but him, and he knows that. Thank you, handsome, for always loving me and for letting me shine when necessary and crumble when necessary, both in your arms. Thank you most of all for giving me the best gift and the best job I’ve ever had: being a Mom. I will not ever forget, and know you will not either, that our love is the reason for their being.

Jack in St. Pete Beach in 2008, the year we brought Joe back

Mamaw, with her great granddaughter, P

Thanks to my Mamaw (my Mommas’ Momma) for so many things—but the one that comes to mind today in particular is for how you signed the note you wrote to be before I went abroad for the first time: “To thine own self be true.” I’ve always tried to live out that motto—thank you, Mamaw, for giving me the courage to do so. And thanks for being so selfless to all of your kids and to us grandkids; your love knows no boundaries.

Thanks to Joe and to P: you are the lights of my life! You test me in ways I thought I could never be tested, and reward me with smiles and kisses, with gentle hugs and snuggles. The highlights of my day are seeing you first thing in the morning, putting you to bed at night, seeing the look on your face when we pick you up from daycare. Your daddy and I are lucky and blessed to have you.

Joe and P. My kids rock. 

Thanks to Kelly. A fantastic teacher, an amazing friend. Thanks for being the mirror that helps me to see me clearly. I only hope I can do the same for you.

Thanks to all of my family and friends who have lived life by my side, who have laughed with me (and not at me!) and who have helped me along el camino. You are the reason I’m able to find my way.