Chapter 32: Exit

It was our annual trip to the pumpkin patch.  But this year, I was alone.  What we normally did together as a family, was now me doing as a single parent.  The difference was huge and noticeable.  It seems that with each holiday, each tradition, each little-thing-that-we-always-used-to-do, the change is glaring.  The aloneness is jagged and sharp.

I have determined to keep moving.  To count my blessings.  To go through the uncomfortable feelings.

And the best example of this came in the form of a corn maze.  Yep, that’s right.  A freakin’ corn maze - with a Batman and Robin theme, no less.

It had been years since I had been in a corn maze.  The kids?  Never.  They had talked me into buying the whole experience: the pumpkin cannon, the petting zoo, and the corn maze.  

“How hard could it be?” I thought.  We entered with excitement.  Hands stamped, map out, camera ready.

“Ok, here we go!  Now, turn right.  Good. Then, we’ll follow the curve to… Wait.  Uh.  Well, let’s just keep going.  We’ll figure it out!” I laughed with fake-enthusiasm.

Perhaps this was not a good idea.  The reminder that I have no sense of direction and no ability to read a map sunk in.  We were lost.  And I was in charge.  

Panic stared at me as I reminded myself that I can do this.  I’ve got this.  I can make it.

Fortunately, we weren’t alone in the maze.  As soon as I saw a group that clearly knew where they were going, I asked if we could tag along.  The grandfather of the group assumed the role of guide and kindly pointed out where we were on the map with each turn.  Each curve.  And finally, within sight of the exit.

I have never been more relieved in my life.  We. Made. It!

And like the maze, I realize that there will be an exit to this chapter.  That without the help of others, I undoubtedly would be lost.

Divorce is not easy. There are days overflowing with doubt.  There is a sadness for not only what was lost, but for the future-that-never-was.  

And yet I hold onto the hope that we’ll make it.  Me, my kids.  One broken and beautiful family.  

Chapter 31: Appearances

The restaurant was called Remy - a nod to an authentic French restaurant.  Nevermind that we were nowhere near France.  Nor land, for that matter.  We were on board a Disney cruise line, in the middle of the ocean.  And, the chef was exactly what you would imagine when casting a French chef: rudy cheeks, round belly, and mischievous eyes that sparkled against his accent. 

We decided on the full 8-course dinner.  Each course served on an actual silver platter.  The waitstaff would line up, circle around, then present each of us at the exact same moment.  Perfect choreography cueing a perfect, impressed response.  I think we actually cheered the first time.

Over three hours, we oohed and ahhed over the presentation: the drizzled sauces, the intricate cuts, the precisely plated entrees.  We savored the flavors and exotic tastes.

From the outside, it was exquisite.  A private room.  Wined and dined.  Surrounded by family.

But inside, I was crumbling.  A week before our vacation, news had surfaced and things had changed.  My marriage was falling apart, and I remember sitting in my black dress at the white-clothed table - in what should have been an unbelievably romantic experience and feeling nothing but emptiness.

Things are not always what they seem, are they?  Like the French restaurant.  Looking in, you could have been fooled into thinking it was real.  But really, it was just an imitation.  It was alluring and appealing from a distance.  Inside, strangely hollow.  

It was the strangest combination.  A full stomach paired with a broken heart.  

Chapter 30: Devils Punchbowl

The Oregon coast is more Wuthering Heights than MTV Spring Break.  It is stormy and rugged in a romantic kind of way.  Think galoshes and raincoats instead of flip-flops and sarongs.  So while most of the country followed the sun south, we drove straight west.  Over the Cascades, through the fertile valley, and into the windy, rocky edge of Oregon.

We visited lighthouses, got queasy on a fishing boat, giggled at sea lions, creeped by The Goonies house, and ate way too much clam chowder.  But my favorite part was seeing Devils Punchbowl: a giant rock formation whose waters swirl with the incoming tide, before emptying out into the ocean.

The path down to the beach (and bottom of the punchbowl) was inconspicuous.   Had the yellow, Do-Not-Cross tape not been strung across the entrance, we would have driven right past.  Do Not Cross?!  More like, Welcome, All who Dare to Enter.

Duke and Eloise raced down the path only to stop abruptly at the sidewalk’s tragic end.  A landslide of sorts had taken out the pathway - requiring only the truly committed to grab a rope and swing/slide down the rest of the way.

We took turns scaling down the cliff before scrambling across the barren beach, leaping over little inlets, the sand squishing beneath our feet.  Then, we stopped.  Not only were the sides of Devil’s Punchbowl made of rock, but so was the bottom.  And rock + water = algae.  It was like Trolls meets Dr. Seuss: the algae was a furry, neon green, with red/orange/brown worlds growing in between.  Fairy dust and moon craters.

We crawled across the slippery rock, before Duke insisted we go back, worried that the tide would suddenly burst in and we would be dragged out to sea.

A safe distance from the Punchbowl, we wandered around the tide pools.  Still slipping and leaping and exclaiming.  We saw sea urchins and alien-like-life-forms.  We got slapped by the spray of the waves and laughed at each other’s reactions.  The moment forever captured in my mind.

The sun faded into the horizon as slowly as the tide came rolling in, so we turned one last time toward the rising water in the punchbowl before trudging back.

It’s hard to say why this moment, more than any other, stands out from our trip.  Was it because it was so unexpected?  So new?  Was it because of the sense of urgency, knowing that we had a small sliver of time to see it?  Or because the world was filled with color and light and wonder.  Perhaps, it’s all of the above.   A mix of emotions and sights. 

Like punch: swirling and stirring around.  

Chapter 29: It's Summer Somewhere

You always want what you can’t have.  When it’s summer, you complain of the heat.  When it’s winter, you whine of the cold.  Inside, you get cabin fever.  Outside, you get, well, tired-of-being-outside.

Inevitably, there’s something you wish for.  And in Bend, in January, that something is warmth.  

I thought it would be important fun to deed a day, It’s Summer Somewhere.  So that’s just what we did.  For one day, we ignored the 20-something degrees and snowy outside and imagined an 80-something degrees and beachy inside.

We made sand castles and put on shorts.  We had a picnic in front of the the TV, playing a one hour loop of a green, grassy park.  We swam at the (indoor) pool and had a bubble-gum-blowing contest.  We grilled burgers and toasted with pina coladas.

It was a perfect cocktail of Fourth of July and Tropical Vacation.  Summer and silliness.  Sweet and salty.

Viktor Frankl said, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”  He’s right.  Sometimes you can’t change your circumstances.  You can’t wish the cold away.  But, you can change your attitude.  And pretend.

Chapter 28: Outside

I admit, moving from Central Texas to Central Oregon was a bit drastic.  We moved from a town of 2 million, to one of 80,000.  From a major metropolis to a mountain town.  From two seasons to four. 

Sometimes, I long for the familiarity I once knew.  For foods and faces that I was used to.  And places where I knew my way.

But then I have new experience, and it knocks me off my feet.   

We had heard rumors of people heading to the forest to cut their own Christmas trees.  After a quick search online, we found the rumors to be true.  And better.  For a little bit of money and a whole lot of time, you could do exactly that.

Loading up the truck with a saw, step ladder, and measuring tape, we stopped at the neighborhood market for an overpriced ball of twine, and drove west towards the mountains.

We all held our own expectations for the hunt.  Chris imagined an off-roading adventure over ungroomed forest roads and far away from civilization.  The kids wished for a snow-filled wonderland – tromping through powder and dropping down into snow-angels.  I wanted to not-get-lost.  Or injured.  Or angry.  And we all wanted the “perfect” tree.

Somehow, we all got what we wanted.  We started in the snow, then headed to a very Off-Road road, before finally parking in a place in between.  It was uncanny how similar it was to the Christmas Vacation movie – with whining kids and an overzealous Clark/Chris.

Everyone was arguing over which tree was the Best tree.  Or when it would be lunchtime.  And dramatically asking for help trying to get over/under fallen pine trees.

By the time we half-agreed/half-defaulted on one, we realized we had left the saw.  In the truck.  A good 300 yards up the road.  Defeated, I shuffled back to retrieve it.

Maybe it was because I was hungry.  Or tired.  But finding myself alone in the forest suddenly overwhelmed me.  The tall pines creaking in the wind.  My footsteps crunching underneath.  The silence blanketing.  Peace hushing.

I was reminded that all is well.  My heart brimmed with gratitude – not because the moment was perfect, but precisely because it wasn’t.  

When we got home (five hours and frazzled later), we noticed the tree was a teeny bit too tall.  By, ahem, four feet.  We sawed it down, dragged it in, and admired our prize: all scrawny and Charlie Brown Christmassy.  To most it must look pathetic, but to us, it’s priceless.

Sometimes you have to step away or step out, to really take notice – whether it’s removing yourself from a situation or moving halfway across the world.  Worn-in routines and rutted traditions are comforting.  

But, only in the disruption can you see things with fresh eyes.    You realize what really matters: Relationships.  Love.  And time spent together.

Chapter 27: Horse Crazy

I’m not sure when Eloise’s obsession with horses began. Maybe it was when she was a toddler and we put her on a pony at Kiddie Acres. Or after watching Black Beauty dozens of times.

Regardless of the start, by the time she turned seven, she was hooked. She devoured anything on the subject – from movies, to books, to photos. She begged us weekly, if not daily, for her very own horse. She rattled on and on about how she wanted to live on a ranch and ride all day.

We could have easily squelched her dream and laughed at the outrageousness of the idea. Neither Chris nor I are horse people.

But we didn’t. We did quite the opposite. We embraced it. Encouraged it. Supported her. We threw her a horse Birthday party. We arranged for a horseback-riding lesson. And in a swelling crescendo of love, we signed her up for Horse Camp.

You would have thought that she had died and gone to heaven. Everything was pure magic. The setting was more idyllic than a Western movie. It was sweeping views and bluebird skies. The majestic mountains in the background and a worn-out barn in the foreground.

She loved every. Single. Second.



The night before her last day of Horse Camp, Eloise whispered, “I’m sad,” before giant tears dropped to her bedspread. She sobbed that she didn’t want Horse Camp to end.

It was like she knew that the dream was ending – and no matter how much she wished it to not-end, she couldn’t. The clock would strike midnight, and the fairy dust would settle.

I think that’s what makes such moments even sweeter. Because they don’t last. The experience ends, and you’re left with only the memory. The imagery and feelings snuggled in tight.

Chapter 26: Texas

I assumed that I would always be a Texan. I married a Texan. We made our life among the ancient oak trees and raised our kids among the bluebonnets. We had become accustomed to the culture of BBQ, cowboy boots, big trucks, and even bigger egos. It was our home.

At least until June.
And then, it became our past.

The weeks leading up to The Move were pure chaos. We spent months getting our condo fixed up, only to sell it in one day. We juggled craigslist buyers, boxes, and good-byes – all while maintaining the routine of school, work, and life.

Our dear friends threw a Texas-themed going away party. It would be our final hurrah.

A thunderstorm raged as we trekked through the city to their house. Roads were flooding. Wipers sloshing. Then, as soon as we pulled into their driveway, the rain suddenly stopped. It was as if some other force was orchestrating the entire event.

Once inside, we sipped on margaritas, while outside, the kids captured frogs. We smiled over fajitas and filled each other in on the latest news/gossip/plans.

It was as it always had been. Sharing meals. Memories.







The night was perfect. We danced on the lawn, then took way-too-many pictures of the bright, burning sunset. We laughed/cried. And laughed/cried some more.

There were promises of visiting. And good, compelling intentions. But there, lingering, was the space in between. The knowledge that things would be different. And that the chapter, This Chapter, was closing.

You know that trite, almost tart, saying “Better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all”? Well, it’s true. Spot on. I will always cherish the time we had in Austin. All the firsts. And all the lasts. I have no doubt that we are the people we are today because of the experiences, relationships, and seasons that shaped us.

Texas is no longer our home. But I love telling people that it’s where we’re from.

Chapter 25: The First Step

I have an affinity for lists.  I love writing things down – and especially crossing things off.  One of my favorite lists is my bucket list.  Each year, I scribble down new goals.  Some are strong and substantial.  Others, trivial.  But, one item that never left my list was to run a half-marathon.

I’m not sure why I wrote it in the first place.  I am not a runner.  I love the idea of running, but not the practice of it.  I ran my first 5K two years ago and felt like I had accomplished an Ironman.  Afterwards, friends asked if I wanted to run the Austin marathon with them and I laughed.  Me?!  I think I’d rather get a root canal.  Or ten.

And then my non-running, noncompetitive friend, Jeanette, finished the half.  Mind you, she hated it.  But she was so glad for the experience, saying, “It reminded me that I can do hard things.”  

I was sold.  I signed up and paid the fee.  

It’s funny how sometimes all it takes is another person to go before you to assure you that everything will be okay.  To breathe deep in the certainty that if she/he/they did __________, then I can do __________.

I started training nine months before the race.  My schedule revolved around my jogs and I found myself focused like I had never been before.  I would speed home from school during the weekdays and wake early on the weekends.  I contended with the weather and my mood (one was almost always foul).  But still, I pushed on.

Then it was February.  Valentine’s weekend.  My sister, Laurie, drove down I-35 to run with me.  And I was so grateful to not be alone.

We started together.  Side by side.  Then I slowed down and urged her to go ahead.  Somewhere around mile three, my body got into a rhythm.  My breathing syncopated to my feet-pounding and heart-beating.  My mind floated between thoughts and awareness.  

By mile ten, my muscles started to weaken and I was moved my sheer will power.  And then, I crossed the finish line.  I wandered down the tunnel, legs numb, eyes wet.  I couldn’t believe I did it!  I still can’t believe that I did it.

Jeanette was right.  We can do hard things.  

It begins with the first step.

Chapter 24: Drive

They say that kids thrive with structure; that they relax in the stability.  And while I think it’s good to live in a daily rhythm, I also love what happens when we break the pattern and let life carry us wherever it will.

One weekend in October we did just that.  We pushed aside our to-do list and filled up our gas tank.  We had only two goals in mind: to pick pumpkins and fill our bellies at Alamo Spring Cafe.  But on a whim, we took a detour and turned before the pumpkin patch into the LBJ Ranch.  We’ve lived in Austin for over fourteen years and have never set foot on the property.  Something about always having an itinerary, made it difficult to stop.  But not today.  Today, we were explorers of the casual variety. Like loitering teens at the mall, we would stop if something caught our eye and shuffle by if it was boring.

The first stop was the one-room school house where Johnson started school.  The kids were giddy to find the wishing well out front and the outhouse, well, out back.

Then we drove for what seemed like miles through the ranch – over cattle guards and past grazing herds.  We laughed at Duke screaming shrill and panicked as we stopped the car by one particular cow.  He demanded that we roll up the window because it was “going to get” him.  And then we stopped laughing because we realized that he was legitimately scared.  (Clearly, Eloise stole all the animal-loving genetics.)

Later, we parked the car and joined the herd of tourists milling about the retired Air Force One plane.  Then we wandered around the terminal, watching videos form LBJ’s childhood and taking pictures behind the Presidential podium.

I was struck by the idea of how many people described Johnson as “driven” and “a natural leader” even as a child.  I wondered how much of a person’s personality is predisposed and how much can be altered.  Are we are truest selves when we’re young and unfiltered? 

As we drove away from the ranch and towards our agenda, I kept rolling around the idea of self and stories.  I wonder what people will say about me, and you, when we’re gone?  What descriptions will they use?  And will it even matter?

But then we pulled into Vogel Orchard and I left the idea lingering in the car.  We had more pressing matters at hand, like hunting down the perfect pumpkin.  One with a great personality.

Chapter 23: Lessons

I forget sometimes what the world looks like when you’re four: where everything looms large and Dads looks like superheroes.  Sometimes I get so focused on my own world that I forget to see others orbiting around me.

This fall, Duke’s world took a major shift as he went from a publicly funded daycare to a privately run Montessori.  It was a change in setting, expectations, and personalities.  It was like starting a new job – without a job description.  I couldn’t help but be excited as I still remember my days in Montessori.  But Duke was anything but eager, especially on the coattails of summer.

The first day was tolerable, but the second day was devastating.  He gave us the silent treatment the entire car ride home.  Then, as soon as we walked in the door, he broke.  Sobbing, he told us how he didn’t like school.  How he didn’t know how to swing.  How the teachers didn’t push him. How all the other kids knew how… Except him.  My heart ached.

It was hard to see him in so much turmoil.  My knee-jerk reaction was to be upset with the teachers.  How dare they not push him on the swing?  Don’t they know he’s only four? And new? And sensitive?!  Fortunately, I’m not a single parent and my better, more-reasonable, half calmly announced “Then, we’ll have to learn!  Tomorrow, the first thing we’ll do after school is go to the playground and I’ll teach you how to swing.”

And that’s just what we did.  The next afternoon we marched straight to the swings.  Eloise was showing off.  Duke was getting frustrated.   And Chris was patiently explaining the physics of leg-pumping.

The moment was filled with metaphors.

Being a parent is probably the most demanding job I’ve ever had.  There are layers of responsibilities and heaps of frustration.  It’s heart-breaking to watch your child struggle and not do anything about it.  And while fixing the situation would be easier, it wouldn’t be fulfilling.

There’s this video that I show my students about how struggle makes you stronger.  We talk about conflict and how it makes a better story.  And while learning to swing might seem silly to most people, to a four-year-old, it means everything. 

When we picked up Duke the next day after school, he was beaming.  Anxiously, we asked how it went on the swings. He said that he went so high, he touched the leaves. 

At that moment, Chris became my superhero.  (It’s a perspective that Duke and I both share about him.)

Chapter 22: Life's a Beach

I have this thing for camping.  I really, REALLY like it.  In fact, I kind of glorify it.  But like childbirth, I’ve forgotten the not-so-pleasant parts and only remember the glowing ones.  I feel the same way about beaches.  So I thought there would be no better way to celebrate my birthday and Easter than with the ones I love, doing what I love, in a place that I love.  It would be our first Family Campout!  I imagined running slow motion, holding hands, splashing into the waves.  I daydreamed about watching the sun melt over the gulf while the campfire cracked.  And laughing.  Lots of laughing.

It took a full day to pack and prep, and another day to drive.  By the time we actually arrived to Padre Island National Seashore, our car and our nerves were about to burst.  The anticipation had been killing us.  Everything was exciting:  “Look a seagull!”  “Wow, the smell of salt water!”  “Kids, isn’t this FUN?!!”

We scoffed at the “4-wheel drive only” sign, changed the suspension’s setting to Sand, and plowed through the tire tracks looking for the perfect place to pitch our tent. 

I use the word “pitch” very loosely.  Because in our inexperience, we hadn’t accounted for the hurricane-like-gusts that Never. Died. Down.  It was like trying to drape a table cloth in a wind tunnel.  The only things not whipping violently were the items we threw in the tent or left in the car.  This, of course, also posed a problem for the campfire.  Chris spent  hours trying to dig a hole deep enough to block the wind – and even then it was more meowing than roaring. 

It was hard not to be disappointed.  This was not how I imagined it!  I hadn’t planned on the seaweed drifts, rotting and squishy.  Or the layer of dampness on every square inch of fabric.  Or trying to fall asleep to the pounding of the waves. 

But I also hadn’t prepared for the sunrise.  Or the floating feeling of peace.

We woke up Easter morning groggy, hair-matted, wind-beaten.  And worn out.  The kids smashed confetti-filled cascarones on each other’s heads and then Chris waded out with them, helping them high-jump over the waves.

I was overwhelmed with emotion.  I had been so focused on wanting the Hollywood version that I had forgotten about the Here-and-Now version.  The messy, raw, and beautiful version.

Weeks after we returned, I would still find grains of sand.  I would roll my eyes.  Then smile. And laugh. 

Chapter 21: Believe Me

It feels cliché to even say it, but our Disney cruise vacation was once-in-a-lifetime.  (And no, I’m not being compensated for writing this).  Our family had been planning the trip for years.  It was going to be the biggest excursion we had ever attempted: 10 adults and 8 kids flying into Miami to join other crazed cruise-goers on a floating resort.

The thing is, when doing anything Disney, you have to live by the mantra “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”  This is not the place to show any restraint.  This is one of the few places where dressing like a pirate is not only allowed, but encouraged.  As well as joining other strangers in a conga line after dinner.  And ordering two entrees just because you can.

We indulged in everything offered: food, entertainment, service.  We never lifted a finger.  Never chipped a nail.  It was pure vacation.

I realized something though.  The reason the Disney Empire has survived is because it gives people something to believe in.  The stories that sell are those of triumph.  The character is an outcast or the family is broken.  The pain is ruggedly real.  But, the conflict is always resolved; the good guy always wins!  And we see ourselves in the stories.  Maybe I’m being oversentimental, but for one week, we got to experience the magic of Disney.  We got to escape from the trials of daily life and given something with wings.  We left the stress and burdens and drama back on shore.  We got a glimpse of hope.

There’s this line from the movie Failure to Launch where Matthew McConaughey says something about “You don’t love boats.  You love the idea of a boat. But the reality of it is, they’re just a drain on your time, wallet, and emotions.”   I’m pretty sure he was talking about more than just a boat.  But, I’ve always loved that line.  I think a lot of people love things because they love the idea of that thing.  Like Disney, they stand for something bigger and more beautiful.  And maybe that’s the point.  Maybe we could all use a little more belief in our lives.

Chapter 20: Together

I’ve pinched myself a lot this year. I’ll be tucking the kids into bed and be interrupted by Chris’s stomping and “Fee Fi Fo Fumming.” The kids shrieking/giggling. Or I’ll sleepwalk downstairs in the morning to the dreamy smell of rich coffee and see him whisking eggs as only a drummer could: quick and on tempo.

It’s almost surreal to be on the same schedule this year after seasons of being opposite. It feels normal and comfortable and right. We’re no longer single parents sharing an address. We are a family – in the most beautifully messy way.

So by the time Thanksgiving came around, the comparisons between the previous year and this year were startling. Last year, Chris was off for the 24 hours of Thanksgiving Day. It was formulaic and forced. We ate dinner at 10 PM, exhausted, thankful that we didn’t kill each other in the process.

But this year, oh, this year! We had five days off. Together. My parents came down to join us and we escaped to a lake house where we were wonderfully, eerily, alone. Chris morphed into Jacques Pépin as he orchestrated culinary arrangements that were like none other. We ate and ate and then ate some more. There was no agenda. No rushing off to something. No distractions. It was what vacation is supposed to be: a chance to vacate the normalcy and routine.

Looking back at the loneliness of the previous year, I am so grateful for what it taught me. I will never take for granted the simplicity of being with those you love. And I realize the best gift you can give anyone, is the gift of time.

Chapter 19: Last Words

We all thought he was dying. The evidence was piling up: weight loss, excessive sleeping, Hospice nurses, and family phone calls. With summer ending along with our availability, we booked a flight to Orlando to say goodbye to my granddad. Once there, we sat around his and Nancy’s living room eating care-calendar meals of casseroles and lasagnas. My cousin, Will, took lots of photos. My dad gave an emotional farewell speech. We broke out singing a few broken hymns. Tear sliding, camera rolling.

I had worked on an “I Remember” poem while we were there and minutes before we drove back to the airport, I asked Nancy if I could share it with him. I tiptoed back to their bedroom and by the yellow glow of the lamp, I read. Poem in one hand, his frail hand in the other. I don’t think he was cognizant of the moment as he drifted in and out. But I was fully aware of my purpose: I wanted him to know that he mattered. His life, his being, his very essence had imprinted on mine. Part of his blood and lots of his stories flowed through my veins.

It felt so cathartic to have closure because so often in life we don’t. Before I left, I told him “In case I don’t see you again, I want you to know that I love you.” And he replied in his dark coffee voice, “You will. You will.”

Of course, he was right. Maybe it was the new dentures, or the medicine. Most likely, it was his will. But Granddad did make a turn-around. A month later, we were together in Kansas City for a family reunion – his kids teasing him that the next time he thinks he’s dying, to actually go through with it.

But the truth is, we are all dying. And what a beautiful reminder to treat each encounter as if it was our last. To say the words we need to say, to show the love we feel underneath. I don’t know about you, but I would rather share my heart in person rather than in a eulogy.

Just in case.

Chapter 18: Lots of Locks

Perhaps I was being a wee bit dramatic. Duke probably won’t even remember it, but I feared that someday he would be in therapy, sobbing over gender identity and trying to forgive his mother. The comments started sporadically, but soon spread like poison ivy as more and more strangers confused him for a girl. Sometimes it was awkwardly uncomfortable. Other times, downright funny. Like the gentle-eyed woman in the produce aisle who sweetly chirped, “What’s her name?” and I curtly replied, “Duke.” She half-smiled, half-gasped and went to die a slow and painful death of foot-in-mouth disease by the lettuce.

If it had been up to his father, Duke would have grown up looking like a Hansen brother. But I was done with it. The day we were at a lake party and a grandmotherly-type cooed “your girls are so cute!” (Eloise in a bikini and Duke, shirtless, in blue swim trunks), I knew. It was time to make an appointment at the barbershop.

The day of, Duke was a pro. He sat statue-like while his blonde baby curls went fluttering to the floor. We got photos and a certificate and a ziplock of his locks.

What I didn’t anticipate though was the resulting, er, trauma. That afternoon, Duke had trouble going to sleep. I sneaked upstairs to see what the problem was and found him sitting on his bed, holding my mirror. Staring.

It looks like my fear of Duke landing in therapy may still come true. This time it will be identity confusion. And naturally, he’ll blame his mother.

Chapter 17: Queen of the Hill

I think the reason women believe that having boys is easier than girls is that they know a kingdom is only big enough for one queen. And as soon as that queen’s power is threatened, well, it’s all over. The wars will rage on until one day the young royal establishes her own place to rule.

Eloise was born with the ability to reign. She manages to get us to bend to her ways without even realizing that we’re being coerced. So, I’m not really sure who came up with the “Queen Eloise” party theme, but I am sure she was enthralled. We danced (jumped) to hits by Queen and Prince. We decorated crowns. And we accented everything in pink.

The thing I’ll remember most though was not something on the agenda – at least not mine. While the adults were distracted inside, Eloise led the miniatures outside. For days, she had been talking about playing in this dirt “mountain” in the vacant lot. And that’s where we found her. There in her pink tutu skirt and glittery crown, she played. Her majesty. Filthy and giggling.

In that moment, I could not have loved her more. She was a perfect contradiction: a demure adventuress. She reminds me that life is too big to be put in a box. You plan a party. You choose a theme. You have matching everything. And then a giant pile of dirt beckons.

Chapter 16: There and Back Again

I’ve heard before that disappointment comes from unmet expectations. I agree completely. When Chris’s higher-paying job in Georgetown wasn’t what he expected, he decided to go back to Whole Foods. This decision dominoed into our budget and we were forced to give up the Georgetown house and move back to our Austin condo. Disappointment came knocking. All of the work it took moving, remodeling, and settling in was now utterly futile. We never expected to take a step back. I had imagined a different type of future. And yet, life is full of the Unexpected.

We teach our kids to Dream big!, Follow your heart!, and Reach for the stars! (pardon my cliche reflux). But, I think we should also teach them how to handle heartache and overcome obstacles and work through regrets. We tend to advertise our accomplishments (thanks be to you, oh mighty Facebook), yet much more of life is lived in the trenches. And it’s there that character is built.

Having the chance to “Go Back to Start, Do Not Pass Go” has been hard. But at least the game is not over. And this time, we have a better strategy.

Chapter 15: Just Keep Swimming

There comes a point in every parent’s life, when they have to convince their kids to do something they do not want to do. For Eloise, it was swimming. Or more precisely, not drowning.

She comes by her need-for-control honestly. She’s apprehensive in new situations and hates to disappoint others. So I wasn’t too surprised when she just had to go to the bathroom 10 minutes into her 1st lesson. And 2nd. And 3rd. She would shuffle to the locker room, sit focused on the toilet, wash her hands as if preparing for surgery, and then saunter back to the pool just in time to say goodbye.

I asked her peppy swim instructor for advice and she chirped, “Just practice! If you build up her confidence, she won’t be so scared.” Obvious. And ingenious! We drove to Cindy’s “resort-style pool” for some practice disguised as playing. I told her we were going to play swimming lessons; she would be the teacher, Duke and I would be the victims/students. Eloise showed us how to swim and in the process, practiced her swimming.

With each visit to the pool her confidence grew, until one day she scolded me to get out of the water so she could swim across. By herself. Duke and I chanted “You can do it, you can do it, YOU CAN DO IT!” as she dog-paddled to the other side. I would like to say that she looked up at me, grinning, and thanked me for encouraging her to never give up. But instead she yelled, “I want to do it again!” And I was okay with that too.

Chapter 14: Have and Have Not

Memorial Day weekend we moved out of our Austin condo and into a Georgetown fixer-upper. With double the square footage, a big yard, and drum roll please… a garage – we thought we had made it. We had the concrete floors polished just weeks ahead of time, not realizing that when you grind/polish concrete, it creates a tsunami of concrete dust that leaches itself to anything it touches. We’re talking light fixtures, air vents, inside oven doors, EVERYWHERE.

So there we were, boxes and belongings unloaded from the truck, ready to settle in, when Chris informs me, “We can’t unpack until we get the concrete dust cleaned. And we can’t turn on the AC because it will just recirculate.” Ummm... excuse me?! It’s summer. In Texas. The state where we get cabin fever because it’s too hot to go outside.

But, mission accepted, we got it all cleaned. We tackled one room at a time, until four weeks later, we were done. I can’t deny that it was awful. We lived in a constant state of stickiness. We savored nights when it dipped to the high 70’s. And I learned to appreciate something I’ve always taken for granted. Living without can be one of the best experiences to live with.

Chapter 13: Don't Worry, Be

One of the best pieces of advice I got growing up was from my dad. It was during those awkward teenage (mutant) years that he said, “Don’t worry what others think of you.” I took it to heart and never looked back.

Duke, however, was born with this mantra. He exudes confidence and charisma, with a personality as big as his hair. So, for his 2nd birthday, we tossed out the pre-packaged toddler-themed parties and decided to go Disco. I figured what other toddler likes Disco music AND has a Soul Glo fro? Everyone was instructed to dress accordingly (although I’m still trying to figure out how high-water pants counts as costume, Dad), and we handed out moustaches and glow sticks.

Everything was imperfectly perfect. Who cares if we obviously-can’t-dance and I didn’t make enough cupcakes. I don’t know if I laughed more during the party or afterwards looking at the pictures. But I do know that my family is not normal. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.