Hawaii 5-0

I ride this plane somewhere between time zones and jet lagged enough to still be wired.  I think about how strange my life has been.  Here I sit with my daughter's head in my lap wondering about ways to soften myself. After all, I bred this incredible fireball who is so talented that we are leaving her dance troupe's Hawaiian performance tour.

When I see her, I am certain that her fierce femininity is a mirror of mine. I would like to soften myself enough to be girly, whatever the hell that means.  Seriously, I've been glancing at my hardened persona and how it has arisen out of the need not to be hurt or continuously invest my emotions in those who do not deserve my air.

I can't help but ponder the ways in which I used to question why I was selected to be the beacon for educated single mothers and why I wasn't instead the beacon for happily married women.  But this is the lot I've drawn and it became painfully clear that this life had been carefully designed long before I could make choices.

My lot was cast when my mom showed me that single women don't cry about their lot as they empty mouse traps and model beer can Christmas ornaments.  Single women say fuck it and lean in.  The do what they have to do and say to hell with the rest.  Single women teach their little girls to be independent while enjoying themselves.   Single women say I'm going to make sure that I don't trip over that same landmine dressed as a handsome face.  

When my mom died unexpectedly, I had a short body to snuggle with who loved me more than I could love myself at the time.  An surprisingly tiny set of hands to wipe my face and push me to get dressed in the morning. Then it all made perfect sense.  We were alone so that we would forge a relationship that would slay one another's dragons when they rose.  We were alone to make jokes no one else would understand while being able to weep when we most needed it.

But somewhere in there is still the need for intimacy and not the type that I'm prone to do, where I select the body I'm most comfortable with for the evening.  The kind where I opt not be bothered for another few months until I feel like being bothered again.  I find myself lusting after cozy movie nights where I fall asleep in his pajama bottoms after being too sleepy to even watch more than half an hour of the movie.   That is the intimacy I value even though my drive allows for way more than that.

As I've become increasingly clear that my life was designed this way -- flaws and all -- I have no choice, but to believe my king is out there and he's just being prepped for how to best handle me.  And maybe I'll be ready when he appears.  I'm learning to wait...

Happy Birthday to us

Seven years?  Can it be so?  We celebrated her birthday and there was dinner and a trip to be pampered.  No balloons or Chuck E. Cheese madness for us this year.

I stand amazed that my daughter has been growing for seven years and has the height, vocabulary and beauty to prove it.  Have I weathered seven years of single parenting and come out alive?  I toss my short, sleek hair back and laugh.  Yes, I certainly have.  *At this point, my daughter would remind me that my hair doesn't move when I toss it, but I digress.  I feel like Picasso as I step back and say that I created that young lady.

Times have changed.  I have changed with them and even when it was at its bleakest last year, I pressed on.  I had to and couldn't afford to crumble.  I have seven-year-old eyes watching my every move to figure out what position she was to play.  She played it, too.

When I returned from my nine days in the hospital at my mom's side, my daughter watched me renew myself as a domesticated and humbled parent.  She also watched when I didn't eat my peas and made sure to fuss at me until I did.  It's funny how the roles reverse and sometimes the adult becomes the child.

I've learned to be even more skillful and resourceful.  I guess you can say that I've sharpened the saw.  I emerged a greater person, not because I was confident, but because my mom would have wanted me to.  I couldn't falter.

I hadn't stumbled when my relationship with my daughter's father crumbled into dust.  I hadn't stumbled when I took a leave from my employer after the loss of my mom and my supervisor was not feeling it.  I simply didn't give a shit.  My mental health had to prevail because I have seven-year-old eyes watching me.  2011 showed me that I inherently know what to do in every situation that comes my way.  The answer is right there inside and all I have to do is listen to it.

That is how I made it through these seven years.  That little voice inside.

BMJ's amazing technicolor dream shawl

So,my daughter goes to Waldorf school. Love the school. Love the teachers. Love the change I see in my little one. Anyhow, every morning for the last month or so, I have been eyeing this beautiful, hand-knit, rainbow silk yarn shawl. It was displayed so temptingly in the display case nearest to her classroom. Every morning, there I was eyeballing it, willing to come home with me. So, I decided to save pennies from my retro paycheck at work to get it. I prepared for, wait for it, wait for it...

$600 or so.

A sizable chunk of my retro, but this annual auction is for her school, which is one of my favorite causes right now. Anyhow, it was looking good for me at the auction. My first bid was $200 and I was so grateful that it was part of the silent auction because the live auction folks have money much longer than mine.

So along come three other ladies. I was unwavering. One lady bid only once. Now we're down to three. Another lady bowed out around $450 or so. Now there are two.

This lady was feisty! But I am feistier. However, I had to keep reminding myself that this money was for my daughter's school. Not just about a purchase. So, here we were. My challenger went $500. I went $525 and she turned to me and said, "my husband said $500 was my limit." I had my game face on. Being single seems to have its advantages because at that moment my only limitation was the voice inside my own head. And at that exact moment, it didn't care about a limit. It simply said, "Get your shawl and quit playin'!"

My mind said that her declaration of her highest bid was a trick to get me to reveal my final number. I am no fool. My facial expression never faltered. As I stepped toward the table to bid, she bumped me with her hip. Still unswayed, I then bid $525. She frowned, snatched the pen at 20 seconds to go and went $550. She tried to even stand in front of the paper. I politely got her to move -- totally against her will-- and bid $600 in the final seconds.

I already knew what I would pay and that the hands that knit that lovely shawl had a hip librarian and mama like myself in me in mind for it. I am so happy that I got my beautiful shawl and supported Waldorf education simultaneously.