The Ranch

We didn’t find this place, it found us.

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As sometimes happens, the places you are meant to be, find their way to you.

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School let out for summer on that Friday and by Saturday morning we were leaving behind our gray skies for the dry heat of the Arizona desert.

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The days flew.

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When there are horses to ride and bulls to lasso, there’s not much time for make-up, squabbles over meals or chatting on the phone.

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You wake up each day at 5am, drink your coffee, don your cowgirl boots and head out on your horse.

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When the heat of the day gets to be too much your lounge by the pool or find a cool spot to do yoga on the lawn.

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There aren’t any TV’s.

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Emails seem to find a way to go unanswered (especially when you hear that dinner bell ringing).

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And on that last day, when you ride up the mountain for blueberry pancakes at sunrise, you realize this was the best thing you did with your year.

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You know that nothing will replace the memories you made on this trip. And you are grateful for the sunset.

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The Mundane

I changed two light bulbs. They burnt out a month ago.

I went swimsuit shopping. Got depressed. Went shoe shopping.

I paid the bills.

Had the oil in my car changed. It was 3,000 miles overdue.

Thought a thousand times about how much I wanted to write something compelling before I realized the compelling was the mundane.

This is it.

This is the reality of two Saturday’s and Sunday’s each month.

There are long runs, dinners out with friends, travel and reading.

But most weekends this is all there is to write.

For the first 18 months I struggled with that solitude.

I thought my days of child free living had to be filled with adventure.

Slowly the tides turned and as always happens, life took priority.

I could be that woman at the grocery store alone.

The one at the car wash vacuuming out her SUV without children clamoring over her.

I didn’t need to turn every weekend into an adventure to fill the void of my loneliness.

There is beauty in the mundane and bravery in simply living.

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Seasons

They’re beginning the walk away.

No longer toddling towards me arms out stretched.

I find myself staring at their backs as they lug their own bags, carry their own loads.

The season of parenting those whose physical needs are great is now over.

Sid makes dinner for us each week more nights than I do.

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Audrey doesn’t need reminders to brush her hair, say her prayers or wear a coat.

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The days of bathing children are finished as Ellery spends as long as she can in tepid water, lathering her hair and singing songs to her babies splashing in the ocean of suds.

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I am supposed to tell you that I am ready for the season to have passed,

that I am embracing this next stage of my life and theirs.

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But in reality, I never thought at 38 that my years of giving birth and nurturing babies would be complete.

Maybe I should have.

There is always an end why shouldn’t mine have been today?

My heart knows the joy I have here in this moment.

The beautiful ladies who fill my days with laughter and tears,

the children that teach me how to be a better person.

And in that I will be grateful.

 

Broken

Momma why is it this way?” she asks me.

The eyes imploring, wanting more.

“We couldn’t make it work, your Dad and I”.

“We had big dreams that we couldn’t share. Now your Daddy has someone who shares those dreams and it will be good”.

“So you broke apart then Momma” she whispers as she unlaces her fingers from mine.

“Oh my Ellie girl nothing is broken. It can’t be broken. You exist.”

“I don’t understand Momma”.

“Daddy and I made you. You are made from the best parts of each of us woven together. You aren’t broken are you?”

“No Momma I am whole”

“So you see then even though Daddy and I aren’t married nothing is broken. You and Audrey and Sidney make us whole”.

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The Foundation

I am their foundation.

I see and understand it more clearly each year.

That smirk Sidney makes when she throws a biting comment my way, that’s my smirk, my biting comment.

Ellie’s pants this morning, her hysterics over the way they felt touching her belly. Her insistence that “nothing in my closet fits”. That right there was a thirty-eight year old women in a five-year old’s body.

And Audrey when she nods her head in agreement to something you know she doesn’t feel in her core is right, I see myself, a million times over saying yes when really I mean no. Trying hard not to rock the boat.

We go to church,

have amazing friends and family.

and are surrounded by love and opportunity.

But, that means nothing without something to emulate. A living, breathing, model, that twenty-four hours a day shows them how to rise and fall.

It is me.

The responsibility sits on my shoulders.

And in that responsibility, is quite possibly, one of the most profound privilege’s of parenthood.

The window into your own behavior and the chance to course correct.

The chance for each of us to do better.

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Try

No hanging back, no waiting in the wings.

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I will try and I will teach my girls to try.

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Together we will watch our lives unfold.

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No goals or aspirations for the coming year,

just twelve months living in the moment.

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The last year has been remarkable.

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So many adventures yet still a time of waiting.

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The season of waiting is now over and we will move forward simply trying.

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The Joy

The book lives in my cupboard.

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Dog-eared and worn, cover long since lost.

It comes out once a year as Christmas tradition demands its recipe for peanut butter cookies.

So we sit together, stirring and scooping the peanut butter goodness.

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The years fall away. The girls grow and the tradition remains as if nothing has shifted.

It doesn’t recognize one less person around the counter.

The tradition delights in the joy of the making of a moment.

As each candy is unwrapped, it doesn’t acknowledge that this year Ellie is the one to make the candy train and Audrey has graduated to rolling peanut butter balls.

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Nor does it see that Sid is actually in charge of the baking and I their momma am now just a witness to it all unfolding. My hands are no longer needed, just my gaze taking it all in, recording the memory.

The tradition will out survive me.

My girls will teach their girls and what will be left is that book and

the feelings of joy in the moment.

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Victory

We went to the tree farm, our yearly tradition.

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Determined this year that we would get her down on our own. Previous years had resulted in the long trek back to the main house asking for help.

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9 feet and 20 mins later she was down and we were smiling.

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We did it together.

It’s these small moments of victory that give me the most gratification.

Little victories, everyday.

 

 

Alone Together

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I was taught to say my prayers each night.

The Our Father as an end note to my day.

On Sunday’s I sat in the wooden pew and watched my papa preach.

He weaved stories.

Words strung together.

Me straining to understand what they meant for my life.

Years passed. Different wooden pews. Different men and women with their words and my ache to understand.

And then these last 8 years the clarity came in moments least expected.

Moments alone with joy and with grief, I came to realize I wasn’t by myself.

Turning to him, head bowed, heart opened in prayer, I learned that I was supported in my aloneness.

He would carry me, if only I brought myself to his feet.

So I have.

On days when the dog throws up on the carpet, when I forget to pack lunches or when my flight is delayed three times over and I miss those meetings a thousand miles away;

I look to him in my exasperation.

When the girl’s dad tells me he has made the decision to remarry or Audrey’s third grade teacher praises her social intelligence;

I turn to him to guide my response.

The understanding reached.

I can be alone, together.

 

 

 

 

 

Single

SINGLE

Many mom’s and dad’s are the sole parent to their child for a variety of circumstances. I, however, have the opportunity to co-parent quite effectively with the father of my children.

I am not single, alone or abandoned in my parenthood.

Yet why does society seek to attach that word as an adjective to my motherhood? Single Mom.

Should you also be seeking to attach that word to woman as a way to define my marital status, single woman, I would ask that you refrain from that as well.

Please do not use that adjective to define my womanhood.

Define me by my pursuits, my job, my religion, my community work, my motherhood.

But whatever you do please don’t introduce me as your “single friend”, the “single mom”, the “single co-worker”.

I love your desire to show your admiration for how hard it is to parent from the space of divorce by attaching the word single to my status as a mom. Many nights as I struggle to put three girls to bed and give each the attention they need, I feel alone in my job. But defining me as a single mom would do a huge disservice to their Dad, who in his on right, tries his hardest to parent alone when I am not present.

My children have two loving and engaged parents. Please don’t refer to either of us as single parents.

I also admire your attempt to set me up with a partner whenever you see a chance by attaching the word single as a descriptor to my status as a woman. Whether it be at the coffee shop when you want to introduce me to your  “single neighbor” we just ran into or casually over lunch when you offer to set me up with other “single friends”. I love your enthusiasm for being a matchmaker but single is just not how I think of myself.

I love words. I love the good they can do when used in the appropriate ways.

So please, regardless of how good your intention is behind labeling me as single, I ask you rethink that word and its applicability to my life.

When forced to come up with an adjective to describe me, may I suggest that you substitute the word single for extraordinary.

“Can I set you up with my extraordinary friend Heather?”

“Have you met this extraordinary mom I know?”

That my friends is putting real power behind a word.

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