It's All About The Laces

I cannot put on a pair of tennis shoes (aka sneakers or trainers depending on where you reside) without thinking of my dad. This has always been the case, even before he died. The man had a thing for athletic shoes.

My dad loved shopping - his kind of shopping that is. His style was not the wandering aimlessly through stores searching for that elusive must-have-new-thing, he relished the purposeful hunt for a particular item. And that mission usually involved new tennis shoes. 

He was the absolute best when it came to back-to-school shoe shopping. I always had the latest ‘in’ shoe to propel my walk into a new grade in the fall. And when those wore out, another new pair seamlessly backed up my shoe game. I can’t tell you how many times I exaggerated a ‘hole’ or flaw in my shoes to score a new set. Dad always played along...although I now think he knew better and just indulged me.

Back to that fresh pair of kicks.

Once the in store approval was met and funded, the second half of our story takes place. You brought the shoes home and took them out of the box…normal, right? But in our house, the next step involved taking all the shoelaces out. Every single bit, so the shoe was completely laceless. Then you lovingly replaced the laces so each side laid perfectly flat against the tongue of the sneaker and hugged the grommets exactly right. 

It was a process for sure, involving patience and dexterity, manipulating those laces across the shoe and rotating ‘just so’ as you thread and repeat. I loved every minute of it. I still do.

It will forever remind me of dad.

As I tied up my Stan Smiths this morning to take my daughter on an adventure in our new town, I thought of him as I made sure the laces were flat and the tie was even.

Almost four months Dad, and I still want to call you every day to talk about stuff like this.

Family Day

Yesterday was the 11 year anniversary of our Gotcha Day - the day we became a family of three. Large or small, created by blood or circumstance, every family has a story of how they came to be and all are worthy of celebrating.

When she was younger, at least once a week Ella would ask me to recite the story of the day we met. It begins, "Daddy and I woke up very early and drove to the airport..." At this point, she can tell the story as well as I but she enjoys hearing me recount my version and I'm good with that.

The date we were given to appear at the embassy in Guatemala City was April 11th - my godson's birthday. A few years prior in North Carolina, he and his twin arrived several weeks premature and I got to be with their mama Jenny to feed, hold, and love them while they were in NICU. Jake made his mark on my heart - I wear the necklace I was given at his baptism every day.

Our story becomes unique as we did not see one another on the day of Ella's birth, as many mothers and daughters do. Instead, I got to see a picture of her tiny face at 10 days old and knew in my heart she was mine. We finally met in person, a few months later, in a hotel lobby in Guatemala City on April 10, 2008. It was every bit as exciting and scary as being introduced on the day Ella came into the world.

I dreamt of Ella for years and to us, the circumstances of becoming a family are no less spectacular than had I carried her for 9 months and labored to deliver her. It was thrilling to discover some aspects of parenthood are universal, regardless of the path traveled to get there. The instant I first saw her face, the moment she was handed to me, the second I realized she was really, truly mine - they are all branded indelibly on my soul.

Like any other mother, I re-tell Ella's story to her willingly, joyously even, because it is a love story...hers and mine. It's not a recounting of basic facts or statistical data like birth weight or time of day born but the glorious tale of how we found each other and I will always love telling the story that made me a Mama.

Happy Family Day, sweet girl, we are lucky to have you!

Second Chances

I really love second chances…both welcoming them and offering the redemptive opportunity to others. In theory, second chances are generous amounts of sweet-smelling, gossamer tulle gently wrapped around a gift box of ‘Hey, who cares what happened before?’ 

The truth is, second chances are really hard. Like sprinting in flip-flops hard. Where if you go too fast, you end up proned out, shaking your head trying to figure out what happened. Second chances are dirty, skinned knees and sweaty sleepless nights wondering how the hell this is all going to work out.

I still believe in them though. Champion them, even. Because if anyone is willing to put in the necessary work, then a second chance is just that - the moment where you get to positively re-write an ending. 

I’m guessing everyone is open to a better outcome. I sure am.

For My Other Family

During the last few years I worked at a wonderful gym in Delaware, Fusion Fitness Center. I was a client there before I became an employee and I think that says a lot about ANY kind of business but especially a gym.

Over the years, these 'gym friendships' became family - Fusion Family. (It's legit, we even made a hashtag and everything.) Whether we knew each other from kickboxing, small group training, or just regular visits to the gym, it was amazing the way we grew to be integral parts of each other's lives.

We celebrated victories, shared condolences, told off-color jokes, commiserated over burpees and laughed over who forgot what workout item that day. (Bras & shoes were at the top of that list.)

Right before my family moved back to California, Fusion closed its doors. 12 years of sweat, spandex and love ended and we are all still grieving the loss of such an incredible place. The really beautiful thing is that we KNEW how special it was...even in the midst of sled pushes or muscle-ups or that crazy mile run down Main Street.

The unassuming building tucked back in the corner of a parking lot was a safe place. An inclusive place. A place where all you were required to do was show up and you could find a workout buddy, a class to push you, or simply a hug when you most needed one.

I am pretty sure there will never be another place like it. #fusionfamily

Stupid Pluots

I had such a great weekend! Spent some time with my brother, his wife, and his oldest in her chosen spot in the world. Lovely time to reconnect, laugh, and just be together.

I also gave my brother our dad’s watch - the one I most remember him wearing. It’s not fancy at all but something sentimental I knew my brother would appreciate. I had it cleaned & gave it to Matt as an early birthday gift. It was everything I hoped for - a moment for us to remember dad gently, without the searing pain that accompanies sudden loss.

Then we came home and stopped by the supermarket. 

There was a whole display of pluots that are apparently in season and my dad was totally into hybrid fruits and vegetables. He grew some on his own and relished the experimentation process. I especially remember him talking about the science of pluots…a blend of plum and apricot. He loved that dumb fruit.

The memory did me in.

I just pushed the cart around the store as my husband and daughter placed their items inside. I don’t even really remember the rest of the shopping…or the ride home. 

It’s funny how the smallest remembrances overwhelm you with grief. ANY loss is hard - but the sudden ones are a gut punch that leave you gasping for air. And sometimes those punches hit you at the grocery store and you can do nothing but try and keep breathing.

2 months and counting. I really miss you dad.

Bittersweet Homecoming

Over the last couple months I've packed up my family, most cherished household items and special mementos. Everything else we sold or donated. Then last Saturday December 15th, my little family of three relocated to California.

We shipped most things and drove our two cars filled up with everything else. We were on the road for 4-ish long days.

On Tuesday night, December 18th, on the side of the road in New Mexico, I found out my father had died. While it was sudden, it was not completely unexpected. He'd been in poor health while struggling mightily with addiction.

It's still not real. I suspect it never will be.

Yesterday as I crossed into California, I made a phone call to heaven...

Hey Daddy, it's Wednesday afternoon, December 19th. I finally made it back to California to live! I guess I just missed you. I love you the most, Juj

"Going Back To Cali"

Once we made the decision to move back home CA - and move before Christmas - my family was immediately sucked into a vortex of paper. House sale documents, school records, medical files, move forms...you get it. It's odd to me in the era of everything-in-an-instant-internet, we still spend hours completing paperwork. And if I'm honest, my handwriting stinks. It really does. If illegible handwriting was the main criteria rather than math or science, I'd have 'Doctor' attached to my name.

I've got several open notes on my phone...things like 'remember to return viola after Winter Orchestra Performance' and 'don't forget extra dog food for the trip.' Those are the easy ones though, because without a doubt I'll remember something crucial and we'll be in Amarillo TX and can do nothing about it. I just keep telling myself, "This is an adventure, enjoy the journey!" (Maybe I'll even believe it at some point.)

A friend texted the other day and asked how I was holding up. I replied, "I had fast food for dinner and just poured myself a giant glass of wine in a paper cup. You tell me."

Countdown to move: 6 days