Sense of Self

"Is my hair dicked up?" she asked, as she took off her helmet. Yes, she said that.  And yes, she learned it from me. We were in the desert, our little family of four, literally miles from civilization. And yet, here she was, worried about her hair.  We had been riding dune buggies for hours, our cheeks ripped raw from the wind, our faces caked in trails we had just crossed. There wasn't another person from us to the horizon, but none of that mattered. Clara needed to have her shit together. 

(For the record, her hair was super dicked up, but I wasn't going to be the one to tell her.)

From the time she could dress herself, Clara Josephine Lorenzo has been obsessed with her appearance. Not worried about it, obsessed with it. If there was ever a concern that she would be lost in her sister's shadow, Clara's sheer existence ensured that never happened. She has spent hours rifling through my closet, trying on my shoes, twirling in my dresses, and wearing my lipstick like she's about to head out for a night on the town. And I let her. I always let her.

Morgan never loved to be fancy the way Clara does. In fact, Morgan has never been one to put herself in the spotlight. Where Morgan prides herself on staying behind the scenes, Clara will pick center stage. Every. Single. Time. People like to tease me that Clara is just like me. My "mini me" they like to say. Except she's not. She IS me. All of my sass, my wit, my confidence, squeezed into the body of a soon-to-be seven year old. She is too much. And I love it. All of it. Even on the nights when we both lose our shit and I threaten to take away her birthday (yep, did that just last week), and especially on the days when she is faced with a moment that defines her character. And she handles it like a boss.

One of those moments happened this spring, shortly after Clara made the bold decision to cut off all her hair. In the spirit of full disclosure, Clara's motives may have had less to with fashion and more to do with me not brushing her hair, but it was still a bold move. Now, Clara has a number of bad ass role models with short hair, but yet, I worried. I know the "rules" about gender norms, and I know the expectations regarding little girls with pigtails and fancy dresses. And I know Clara could give two shits about all of that. But even in 1st Grade, kids are mean. Girls are mean. 

Ultimately, her haircut was an impromptu decision. David was out of town, and Great Clips was closing in 30 minutes. It was a Saturday night, and Clara absolutely NEEDED her new look for school on Monday. And so we did it, all of it. Gone. Not one bit of hesitation. And it was glorious. And so we celebrated. With lip gloss and French fries. The way classy bitches do.

She arrived at school that Monday, with her new hair and her fanciest boots, and paraded her little self up and down the halls. If that child had a sash and bouquet, she would have taken those, too. Because Clara Josephine Lorenzo had arrived.

But her joy was short-lived. She appeared in David's classroom that afternoon, shoulders slumped, the spark clearly gone from her eyes. What was once a deliberate strut has disintegrated into a meek slink, her confidence clearly rattled.

"What happened, baby girl?"

"A girl was mean to me today, and now we're not friends."

"What happened?" (Note to the reader: David may have asked his question with all the world's diplomacy, but I can assure you he was ready to fight that chick at the monkey bars.)

"She told me she doesn't like girls with short hair, and she told everyone else not to like me, either."

Of course, the two of them are relaying this story to me over dinner, voices raised to a fever pitch, each of them talking over the other in the hopes of getting to the key points faster. Fortunately for Clara, anyone who knows David also knows he is the world's worst story teller, and was easily outgunned. Clara's cheeks were flushed, her breathing heavy, as she shared this moment of trauma.

"So, how did you handle it?" I asked. I could feel my own throat tightening, suppressing the urge to get in the car and go find the little shit who killed my daughter's spirit.

"I told her I still wanted to be her friend, and that she made me sad."

"Well, do you still like your hair, or did this make you regret cutting it?"  

"OH, NO!  I love my hair, mom. It looks amazing!"

Yes, yes it absolutely does. I hope the world is ready for you, Clara Josephine. And may everyone forever see you the way you see yourself.  And may you always be the lightest of lights. The force among forces, the spirit among spirits. You remind me every day to be a bad ass. Even when my hair's dicked up.

Circus Tricks

When I made the decision to start writing again, I had zero idea that a global pandemic would overshadow literally every second of my existence. I am tired of projections, I am weary from rising death tolls, and I am exhausted by skyrocketing unemployment and an onslaught of economic forecasts that have me wondering if selling a kidney could yield higher returns than my 401k. Not to mention, my children. Good god. How do they still have so many stories? We have been together for 5 weeks straight. Yes, I saw your cartwheel. Yes, I heard you whistle. Yes, I know your pee smells like the asparagus we had last night. No, I am not coming into the bathroom to smell it. 

Life is Groundhog Day. I muddle through work, slog through 37,482 Zoom meetings each day that are primarily me judging everyone's home decor, and then try to feed my family some sort of dinner that doesn't include popcorn as part of the main entree. Oh yeah. And then I decide I won't drink, and that I won't eat carbs, and that I will get in 30 minutes of vigorous activity. Instead, I put the kids to bed, swap out my joggers, and pour a crisp Chardonnay over a tall glass of ice. Because I am classy like that. 

But I do think a lot about making some changes.  This may come as a shock to many of you, but I am fat. I generally prefer the term "sturdy" or "thick" as it makes me feel like a Viking. I even had a guy in grad school refer to me as the "Husky Mountain Girl" because he couldn't remember my name.  While I am trying not to overthink our current circumstances, I do think about how to model good choices for my children. I simply do not want my girls to struggle with their weight the way I struggle with mine. See, that's a lie. I no longer struggle. I let go of those "thigh gap" dreams years ago

Over the past 5 weeks, I have had an increasing sense of anxiety that my children may be using food to foster a sense of security and predictability. So, we talk about healthy food choices, and being active, and eating treats only occasionally. And that bodies are different, being strong is more important than being thin (although, my current push-up challenges have confirmed I am neither). As an aside, David is clearly a lost cause; I just found two ham steaks and a box of raisin bran under his pillow. 

And my daughters think I am the bees knees. Because I am confident, and I own my stretch marks, and I am not too vain to live the example I try to set. In fact, I recently had to school both of them on how to do a back bend. No, I couldn't finish the walk over, but no, we didn't have to call the paramedics. My girls were both fascinated by and embarrassed of their mother, and both had their own back bends mastered by the end of the night. I assured them that being 44 and chubby meant nothing.

And then Morgan decided to call my bluff. As I pulled into the driveway last week, I encountered Morgan and Clara in the street. Morgan was on her pogo stick, and Clara was running the timer. They were confident Morgan's 3 minutes of bouncing was on the verge of a world record, and I was confident one of my children was about to crack a tooth. And then the unthinkable happened:

"Mom, do you know how to use a pogo stick?"

"Yes, but it's been a really long time."

"Don't you want to try it?"

"Uh, I think it's just kid sized."

"No, Mom. The weight limit is 250 lbs." (Seriously, why did I let her learn how to read?)

"Okay, I will give it a try..."

"YAY!  And we'll take pictures of you!"

"Yes, please document this shit. That's exactly what I need right now." (Fine, I only thought this one.)


And so I did it. And I nailed it. And my girls were cheering. It was glorious. And then they showed me the pictures. And they were horrifying.

• My double chin was going in for the triple;
• My belly was just about to surpass my boobs as the area most likely to catch a dropped fry; and
• My ass probably needed its own pogo.

My internal reaction was intense. And visceral. And full of self loathing. And an absolute contradiction to every bit of positivity I have been trying to instill in my daughters for the last 12 years. But man, whoa.

"Mama, can you see how good you are? Can you see how many times you bounced?"

"Yes, baby. I see."

"When I grow up, I want to pogo just like you. I want to tell all my friends that my mom is the best pogo sticker in the world!"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far..."

'But Mama, you should put this on Facebook so all of your friends can see!"

She was right. Because that moment wasn't about my chin, or my belly, or my ass. It was about living my word, and setting an example. It was about owning who I am. And having fun. And it was about creating that tiny little memory with my girls. The night their mom almost broke a world record.

Next up, unicycles.

On Death and Cadbury

On July 8, 2019, at approximately 2:17 am, my mother-in-law took her last breath. She died peacefully, at home, which was more than any of us could have hoped. But ALS was an angry and unforgiving monster of a disease, and had robbed her of her life long before that night. 

After two years of misdiagnoses and false hope, The Mayo Clinic offered the final and terminal assessment. David had spent a week with his parents at the Clinic, running tests, listening to convoluted results that no one in the room had the education or emotional bandwidth to understand.  We had hoped it was her spine, her medications, anything that was treatable. Anything but ALS. But we all knew the truth. It was just too unfathomable for any of us to say those words aloud. 

The night they returned, David stood in our kitchen and sobbed. The deep, guttural sobs that suck the air from the room and leave nothing but exhaustion in their wake. "She's dying, Amy. My mom is dying." That night, we became members of the club that no one wants to join, that no one understands until they watch someone they love begin to die. 

It's been nine months since Lorraine died, and the helplessness of COVID-19 has unearthed the sadness and uncertainty I have worked so hard to suppress. When Lorraine died, I missed exactly two days of work. One on the morning she passed, and one on the day of her services. I told almost no one, as her loss was a burden I chose to bear on my own. Those I did tell were kind and supportive, but often did not understand the depth of pain I felt. After all, she was "just your mother-in-law." Or, "If you think this hurts, wait until you lose your own parents." 

I loved that woman fiercely. Lorraine had two sons, and had longed for a daughter her entire life. For 16 years I called her "mom" - we had a relationship that was honest, heartfelt, and filled with the Italian traditions she desperately wanted to pass on to the next generation. She taught me how to throw a dinner party, shared with me her eye for interior design, and tried (futilely) to teach me how to knit. She was an exquisite seamstress, sewing everything from drapes to bed skirts, to the dress Morgan was baptized in. She could get lost in her craft for hours, sometimes days, and emerge with works of art that continue to remind us of the ways in which she mostly easily shared her love. 

At just 4'11", Lorraine was a force to be reckoned with. She had the final say in every family decision, and still carried a wooden spoon in her purse, just in case someone got out of line. My direct nature and crass vocabulary was a steep learning curve for Lorraine, as her entire life had been centered around making things pretty. She bought ribbons by the truckload, and put bows on literally everything, including the extra rolls of toilet paper and bars of soap in her master bath. Needless to say, she saw me as a work-in-progress in the class department. 

My relationship with Lorraine changed forever on August 22, 2008. When Morgan Noelle Lorenzo roared into our family, Lorraine was no longer a mother and friend, she was Nana. And for the next 11 years, that was all that mattered. There were sleepovers, and baking parties, and afternoons spent sewing at the kitchen table. Birthdays and Christmas were lavish (fine, ridiculous) and centered almost solely around my daughter. And Lorraine was in her element. 

By the time Clara was old enough to share in these adventures, the disease had already started to silently rob Lorraine of her ability to enjoy many of her passions. Her loss of balance meant she could no longer stand in the kitchen, and the tightening of her fingers meant sewing was more of a burden than a joy. When I think about the most painful part of her death, it's not that David and Peter lost their mother, or that Nick lost his wife of more than 50 years, it's that Clara will never have the wonderful memories of her Nana that Morgan does.

But there is a beauty to being four when your grandmother dies. Clara has brought a level of pragmatism to our mourning that made even our darkest hours more bearable. When Lorraine died, David asked just one thing of me, to tell our children so he didn't have to. I sat with Morgan in our living room, and we cried together. She was wise, and insightful, and empathetic in ways only she can be. 

Morgan was sad, and surprised, but also shared my deep relief that Lorraine died with dignity, and was no longer suffering. I held her in my arms and made her promise she would tell her baby sister all the wonderful things she needed to know about her feisty little Italian grandmother. 

I told Clara late that afternoon, when I picked her up from preschool. Morgan and David were waiting in the car, and Clara immediately sensed our somber tone.

"What's wrong, why is everyone so sad?"

"Clara, Nana died today. And we won't get to see her anymore."

"Oh."

"Are you okay? Are you sad?"

"Nah, it's okay. At least we still have Grandma!"

Amidst our tears, we laughed. Because she was right. Not because she didn't love Lorraine, but because she doesn't yet have the ability to process the magnitude and permanency of the loss we have experienced. And because nine months later, we do still have Grandma. And Papa, and Gampa. Who are all in quarantine, just minutes from our house. Who are still real, and alive, and very much present. And who, along with the rest of the world, want this chapter to end. 

The last two years often felt helpless, and hopeless. As Lorraine slowly deteriorated, I simply stood by, unable to intervene, unable to offer respite from her symptoms or her suffering. In that time, my children have grown by inches, the seasons have changed, and we have begun to experience the year of "firsts" without her. Thanksgiving, her birthday, Christmas. And now, Easter. For as long as I have known David, he marked every Easter by giving his mother a single Cadbury Egg. Frankly, I'm not sure she even liked them, but it was their tradition. In fact, he tucked one final egg into her hand the day we buried her. 

Today is Palm Sunday. While I am not a religious person, Lorraine was a deeply devoted Catholic. For many Christians, today is historically a day of celebration. Palms symbolize goodness and victory, abstract concepts for many of us right now. And in this time of uncertainty, I can only assume that if Lorraine were still here, she'd be telling us to cherish what we have, celebrate the goodness we see, and have peace in knowing this, too, shall pass. 

And she would be doing it all with a wooden spoon in one hand and a Cadbury Egg in the other. 

Writer's Block

I just finished a Zoom meeting that may have helped change the trajectory of my life. Not because I won the lottery, and certainly not because I have found a cure for COVID-19 (just to be clear, I have zero skills to make that happen). Rather, I had an honest and authentic conversation with a near-total stranger about who I used to be, who I am now, and who I want to be. She was kind, encouraging, and gently reminded me that not all changes in life have to be significant in order to still be significant.

As we talked, I reflected on the emotionally distraught poems I authored as a teen, the short story I wrote in high school, and the "mom blog" I started 247 years ago to chronicle my experiences as a mother. I suggested that she read my blog, and she suggested that I get back to writing, even for an hour, once a week. And so I'm back. At a time when blogs are out of fashion, and most of you no longer care about the shenanigans of my children (don't worry, you will), I am back in saddle, playing catch up on four years of stories, four years of memories, four years of traumatizing the next generation.

Given that our Governor just issued a "shelter-in-place" I am about to get reacquainted with the family I have worked so hard to avoid over the last four years. Like many other families around the globe, we will pretend to enjoy all of our time together by using social media to share both overly glossy family photos of us in the wilderness, as well as pictures of baked goods that magically manifested with no dropped eggs and no burnt fingers.

Don't get me wrong, I am grateful, and I take neither my health nor my family for granted. However, I am also painfully aware that the shrinking of our universe is making many of us scared, uncertain, and uncomfortable. And fears about about isolation and mental health are real.  And often out of our control. For many, the road ahead will be long and potentially difficult. In the meantime, many of us are navigating changes at a much more basic level, like counting toilet paper squares, and stockpiling wine, and working from home. Yes, working from home. With a husband, two kids, and a dog. And so.many.snacks.

I have been telecommuting for exactly 4.7 hours. During that time, my children crashed two video conferences, my colleagues had the pleasure of watching me threaten both of them with their lives if they didn't stop interrupting, and then Clara threatened to pour milk on me if I didn't immediately get her a bowl of cereal. Things are going swimmingly.

And so I end my re-introduction to you with a few humble recommendations for those of you muddling through your career from your kitchen table.

1. Consider using your car as a home office. My laptop fits beautifully on my dashboard...and I can lock my children out of my car much more easily (and legally) than I can my house. 
2. If you work for government, day drinking is still off the table. If you're going to bring a copper mug to our "meeting" I am going to assume it's not water.
3. If you're going to telecommute, be mindful of your camera. Yes, I can see you didn't comb your hair today. Yes, I can tell you're not wearing a bra.

And a few even more humble recommendations to myself, now that I am forced to look at my own reflection for every work conversation.

1. Resist the urge to keep talking with my hands. No one is going to replace my laptop if I knock it off my own table.
2. Anti-frizz serum, add it to my COVID grocery list. Why didn't anyone tell me that I look like I got electrocuted?
3. Buy a better house. Or better furniture. Or at least clean up the office so no one knows how trashy I am.
4. Children, reconsider my decision to have them. They are loud. so loud. And way less charming than I thought they were.
5. Those 20 pounds that weren't a priority, yeah, they should be. The double chin situation is strong. In related news, consider Botox, a face lift, or maybe a just a paper bag.

Here's to rekindling old passions, refocusing old priorities, and to embracing a face that is currently made for radio!

Straight Shooter

It has been so long since I last blogged that I was worried I wouldn't remember my password this morning. December 15. The last time I posted. I am confused and troubled by this. It would be easy to say that I have been too busy to write, that I have finally succumb to the frenzy of two children. And while life is indeed different than it was a year ago, my silence is much less about the lack of hours in the day and much more about my overwhelming sense of confusion as to why in the WORLD we decided to have another kid.

Don't get me wrong, I love Clara in a way I never thought possible. She is sweet, and easy, and the perfect little person to round out our family. Morgan loves her fiercely, and is quick to correct my parenting on just about every level. In fact, Morgan is quick to correct me on just about everything these days. She is seven going on 17, confident that she knows more than me on issues ranging from weekly spelling lists to whether I accurately assessed her eye rolling when I told her to go fold her laundry. We are cut from the same cloth. God help us all.

Last weekend, after what I thought was a lovely family outing, Morgan began chatting from the backseat. For those of you who have (or have survived) a seven year old, they are masters of randomness. They can literally talk for hours without having a single compulsion to connect their thoughts into any sort of cohesive sentence. I get daily updates on recess drama, interspersed with hot lunch reviews, and in-depth analyses of the newest addition to her rock collection. And while I love all of this, I don't always feel compelled to listen particularly closely to every.single.detail. Imagine my surprise when the following conversation began to unfold:

"Dad, you know you don't have to do everything Mom says, right?"

"I'm sorry, what?" I shared a sideways glance with David from the front seat, trying not to react. Because you KNOW I was on the edge of my seat waiting for what was coming next.

"It's just that you don't always have to do what she tells you to. You know you're not her butler, right?" Yes, you read that correctly. Butler.

"Morgan, your Mom and I have a system, one that works well for us." I could see the little beads of sweat forming on David's forehead. Yeah, we have a system. One that involves me constantly reminding David that spending three hours organizing his tools in the garage is NOT the same as picking up the house.

"But Mom is telling you what to do all of the time. Like 'David, I told you to do this. And David, I asked you to do that.' Mom is always saying what has to get done."

At this point, Morgan launched into a lengthy and shockingly accurate role play of the interactions at our house. There was no malice in what she was saying, just her simple observations of the world as she sees it. Oh, but it stung. David and I work hard not to bicker in front of our kids, and we have developed a system that generally involves me dictating guiding our daily decisions. But it works for us. Well, at least I thought it did.

Morgan finished her reenactment, complete with hand gestures and horrifying voice inflections. And when she was done, she leaned forward, pulling on the back of my seat as she craned her neck to look me in the eye. With her brown eyes, big as plates, she met my gaze.

"Any questions?"

I looked away, not wanting her to see the tears that were welling. I shook my head, and she leaned back into her seat, quite smug with her insight. I sat in silence for a moment, unsure of what to do next. In my heart I wanted to explain to her the complexities of adult relationships; I wanted her to understand that David and I have a relationship that involves lots of lists and lots of reminders and that it really does work for us. But she doesn't give a shit about that, she just sees that I am bossy. And maybe I am.

David loves to remind me of my greatest strength and biggest weakness; I am the person who says what everyone else is thinking. Looks like I'm not the only one.