Ode to the cubical wall
so tall and so gray
It hides the world,
the sun, the rain,
life outside this day

Ode to the second cup of
coffee that so
quickly is out
You bring new life, energy

before leaving me without

Ode to the music of MOG
which plays in my ear
Knocking out sound
of others conversations
allowing me to disappear

Ode to the florescent lights
so nasty on my skin
bringing new resolve
to moisturize
and cut back on the gin

Ode to the coming paycheck
so sweet to my account
if it wasn’t for you,
dear bills and debt,
this life I could surmount

My sister, my mother, my cousin and I sat drinking sprite infused juice (cough) while taking copious amounts of photos and rocking the baby to sleep. It was a familiar scene even though I can’t place when that would have ever happened. My sister lived in Tuscan Arizona five of the last six years. My cousin is only now old enough to be a “person” off to college. My mother lives even further, back in Houston, near the small town my sister and I grew up in. And I? Well, I tend to never sit still for very long. So when realization hits and I’m sitting there laughing about stories from childhood, I forget how rare this event truly is. Technology makes it possible to connect, airplanes make it possible to travel, time allows us the opportunity but life, that bugger, gets in the way so often. Tonight, not traffic nor rain nor deadlines could prevent what the long-over-due gathering of women: women from my family.

We laughed and joked about being parents, about marriage, about college and boyfriends and love. We talked about the children, about life. We called each other out on past mistakes and forgive when someone farts. The scene could’ve been straight out of the book “The Red Tent” but with less bleeding and less hay bails. I came to understand, during the short hour drive home, how precious that time was. How rare, how familiar, how ancient the gathering of women from a family. The miles and years that separate us hold little tenacity over the truth of family.

This year I drew my friend’s seven year old son. This kid is an old man trapped in a young-person’s body. While my children run around in their own imaginations, this kid talks like an adult. Since I was completely stumped as to what to get a man-child of 70 trapped in a 7 year old’s body, my friend tells me to just get an iTunes gift card. It’s what he wants, she says. I’m thrilled. “You kidding? Easiest Gift Ever.”

On the way home, this quiet, polite young man opens up to my friend. He said, and I quote:

“Oh my gosh!  Could you believe that she got me that gift card?!?!”
“I just told you the other day that I wanted that and she got it for me!”
“She must know me so well!” 
“Well, we have known her a long time”
“Wait- do you think she’s a wizard??” 
“Wizards know stuff- stuff that people don’t tell them”
“Oh no- she’s not- she’s a WITCH!”  Witches are even bigger than Wizards and they are girls”
“Also- witches have balls- big balls that tell the future”
“I bet Leslie has a big future ball”
“Hrm….

........Yep- she’s definitely a witch- which is weird because I have never even met one before”
“So I got a gift card AND I met a witch!”

And with that, I hope your holiday is as joyful, and as unexpected, as my friend’s son. May reflections on the year bring you happy memories and may looking ahead give you much joy for the future.

Thank you for reading all seven years running….

XO
Mrs. Flinger

My kid? She has the pizazz.

I remember someone cooing over her as a baby. “Doesn’t she just bring you so much joy?” It was an innocent question from a perfect stranger, but at the time she was a three week old leech taking every ounce of my sanity in chunks of 45 minute sleeping blocks. I looked up, bleary eyed, and tried to smile a genuine smile all the while thinking, “Mister, have you HAD babies?”

It turns out? He had. His kids were grown now and he was looking at my three week old baby girl with eyes of decades of memories. Memories like the one at the breakfast table this morning.

“Thanks, Mom,” she said to me when I told her I was proud of her for picking out such a great outfit. I looked at her, her seven year old self, blonde hair, blue eyed lovely. Joy? Yes. Happiness? Yes. Frustration? Yes. But love, oh so much love, beyond anything I can comprehend.

We ate, walked to the bus together, and there at the bus stop was our neighbor girl, a girl in the same class, wearing nearly the same outfit. Both girls smiled and giggled with shy confidence. My neighbor and I laughed as our daughters caught the bus, girls in mis-matched socks and polka dot skirts, skipping up the steps. “Here’s the thing,” I told my neighbor, “I figure I’ll pick my battles. Don’t do drugs, have safe sex, and bygod wear whatever you want.”

I hope she keeps this spirit about her. And I know one day I’ll lean over a ragged, tired mother, and ask with genuine knowledge, “Doesn’t she bring you so much joy?”

She does. Daily.

** Also, super big than you to Babble for naming me one of the top 100 mommy bloggers!

Goethe’s final words: “More Light”. Ever since we crawled out of that primordial slime,  that’s been our unifying cry. More light. Sunlight, torchlight, candlelight, neon, incandescent… Lights to banish the darkness from our caves, to illuminate our roads, the insides of our refrigerators. Big floods for the nigthgames at Soldier’s Field. Little tiny flashlight for the books we read under the covers when we’re supposed to be asleep.

Light is more than watts and foot candles. Light is metaphor. Thy word is a lamp under my feet. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Lead kindly light, amid the encircling gloom. Lead Thou [You] me on. The night is dark and I am far from home. Lead Thou me on. Arise, shine for thy light has come. Light is knowledge. Light is life. Light is light.

We’re entering the darkest time here in the Pacific Northwest. The time where the sunlight dips to unseen beds at 4pm and doesn’t rise again until 8AM. The hibernation of man becomes a reality and people in coffee shops talk about the endless darkness.

We are a collective bear’s den: Nestling down for the winter months, comparing caves and scarves and nuts.

It is during the darkest hours of winter that we seek the Light. To me this is found in humanity. In the imperfect solace of friendships, of community, of tree lightings and holiday festivities. Later we will find this in the houses of those we know: lights of comfort, of discussion: of future plans. This is the time of reflection, of seeking, of finding. And hopefully, as the new year comes upon us, even in darkness, it is a time of light and hope; however that may look in a different new year light.

There is a place I dislike to go. My mind swirls with lonely thoughts. If I chat loud enough, I do not hear her.

I try to not hear winter breathing down my neck.

A year? Two? More? How long has this winter lasted? Why is she here again, so soon?

My children delight in the dark. “It’s almost Christmas! Mom, look!” breathless they point at the houses already lit with twinkle lights. I smile, aching for their joy. I hold them close, hoping by some tactile osmosis, their enthusiasm for life will soak in to my bones. I cling to them almost with unhealthy gulps. The very people who used to cause me such anguish, such uncertainty, are the very ones who seem to be saving me of myself. I curl up with them in their beds, listening to their breathing. I watch as they relax in to calm. I wonder if I will ever find that space again; the peace, warmth and hope that comes with innocence.

I reach out for familiarity. I find songs, blips of light from favorite scenes in movies, quotes in books. I revel in the colorful paintings my children proudly display for me. I work diligently to find the Happiness. And yet, here, in this space, the darkness is heavier than I expect. I try, I try, I try. And yet…

“Mamma, will you play with me?” There are three other children at school outside playing under the careful eye of their pre-school teacher. I briefly consider the deadlines, the emails, the phone calls. “Yes, Buddy, I will.” His face lights up and he runs to select a ball from the bin. We play “kick the ball” which could also be called soccer if we were a little more agile.

At first we are tame, kicking softly, rolling the light red ball across the cement in the covered area back and forth from my large feet to his tiny ones. One of us kicks it a bit too hard and the other laughs as the ball bounces off the divider and the wall. We kick with a twirl. We kick with both feet after jumping. We kick until the ball flies over our heads and we giggle. I am there, at the preschool, in the crisp autumn air with my son laughing while the inbox sits and the clock relents.

Finally it is time for me to leave. I hug, I kiss, I smother with so much love I hope he holds on to me forever. I pull away in my car and I see his small familiar face peering out from the fence. He waves, I wave, he blows a kiss and I blow one back. He signs I love you and as I sign it back my eyes fill with tears of gratitude and thanksgiving. Sometimes fifteen minutes can heal even the most busy of todo lists.

*I should always wear a Jenn Lukas as an accessory.*

It is not that I have such a wide array of worldly experience that these new places are becoming familiar. No, though I never travelled to Brooklyn or NY City before, there is an air of comfort to it. The subway is a strangely wonderful experience. The buildings are twice as tall as they seem on TV. The shops are so crowded, a way I only experience at holidays, I squeeze and bump body parts with several strangers in a stretch of three minutes. But they speak English, and for some reason this catches me off guard. The city, this experience, the bustle and tousle of humans in small spaces, the colors, the bricks, the small shops with outside seating: these qualities feel so European to me, my only experience in this environment having happened thousands of miles across an ocean or two.

*A Robert Eerhart and Louis sandwich, the founders of EECI.

No, I’m not sure if Brooklyn and New York feel familiar because of my traveling experiences or if they feel like home because of the people I see within moments of arriving. There is a band of brothers waiting for me at the nearest pub, ordering beer and waiting up well past the appropriate hour of dinner. There is greeting, smiling, hugging and limbs flying around necks. They are people I know beyond work, they are part of a bigger picture I can not possibly explain without bringing you with me. It is impossible.

*A few of the odd boys

As the MC of the conference, I take stage early on the first speaker day of the conference. I am nervous there, but in the crowd I see familiar faces. I remember something I read from Scott Burken, “Everyone in the audience actually wants you to succeed. They are breathlessly waiting for you to kick ass.” I’m not sure if those are his actual words, but those are the words that repeat in my mind as I introduce myself, welcome the crowd, and kick off the first speaker.

*Look! That’s me on stage! (I did that a lot)

It is this way for two days. The mic, the speakers, the people. It is a blur of puns and friends taking the stage next to me. We manage to make it to the second day, the very last speaker, a good friend of mine, and wrap up the event. It is a feeling of camaraderie, of faith in a community, of strengthening friendships and working relationships. Few conferences can compete.

*Brits who live in Canada still love to drink beer. This teaches us two things. 1. Brits who live in Canada like to drink beer and 2. So does everyone else.

So it is that I think of them as I fly over Deluth. My European friends. My colleagues on twitter. My peers from states and countries and time zones. We gather once a year, in different cities over the world. But we bring with us a sense of home, a sense of comfort, a sense of family. Because of this I know the next city I go to I will think fondly of taking the wrong subway or ordering the wrong menu item. I will laugh to myself quietly unable to explain an inside joke I share with a community thousands of miles wide. I will struggle to explain this to my children when they ask where I was. “I was at a conference, sweetie,” I will reply, “and I missed you very much.” It is that second part where they will hug me, waiting up past their dinner hour, with arms flying around necks. And I will know I am home again.

I have completely, utterly, hopelessly, passionately fallen in love with you, my daughter, my pixie, my joy, my pride.

You grow every day to be a person I am proud of. You create, you laugh, you rejoice. You show me what living with imagination is. You teach me to ride my bike in the grass because cement isn’t necessary. You invite me in to your imagination of talking horses and pet shops. You warm me with your arms and your impossibly long legs, mygod how did they get so long, wrap around my waist when I lift you for possibly the last time of your life.

You love your brother with so much strength, allowing him still to climb in to your lap. You are patient with him, mostly, and I am grateful for your relationship. I watch you as you get on the bus, I send thoughts of strength and success as you smile out the window with your new adult teeth and wave the I love you sign.

You are faithful with your friendships, still enjoying each birthday with our closest and dearest. You are tender to your core and your love means more to me than a thousand successful clients.

One day I will successfully show you how much you’ve changed my life, LB. Until that time I will soak you up, each possible day, each available hug, each snuggle. We love you dearly. So. Very.