But Enough About Me

Sometimes I go to bed and find that while I try to suppress them, entertaining thoughts slink into my head and I start to laugh. My husband once said that if we could bottle whatever seemed to be in my pillow, we’d be rich. I do routinely get my second wind the minute I lay down. Tonight was no different and what crept into my head was the below blog that I started months ago but never finished. It made me laugh then, and it makes me laugh now, so here it is in all its splendor. I genuinely hope that it makes you laugh too!

But Enough About Me or It is an Honor to Serve or Allow Me or I Have All Day

It turns out there are many things you can do with fishing line. I know this, because somewhere in the middle of a conversation while I was sharing with a friend the story of a troubling family rift, I was unexpectedly educated about the remarkable concept that is the “wind knot”. Without adequate segue, he told me about his newly acquired skill as a clear indicator that my three second time limit on the soapbox had unknowingly expired. Likewise, while discussing with my teenage daughter the experience of her premature birth, she asked me where we were going for Christmas this year, to which I responded, “I like cheese” to illustrate the irrelevance of her inquest. The older I get, the more I realize that no one really wants to hear about you anymore. In fact, the self importance that you felt as a twenty something has evaporated and instead reincarnated itself into a Mother Teresa-like form where we live to serve. It is a captivating concept - one that the wise among us will embrace, occasionally toy with, and then ultimately accept. I am not necessarily casting judgment on it, as Oscar Wilde aptly said, “All charming people, I fancy, are spoiled. It is the secret of their attraction”.

There is something brilliant, however maddening, to being on the other side of the offending equation. Listening breeds insight, and subsequently gives us navigational life tools that make it possible to steer through rough waters. Kahlil Gibran said, “The reality of the other person lies not in what he reveals to you, but in what he cannot reveal to you. Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to what he says, but rather to what he does not say”. Human beings are complex and are forever in pursuit of that which they have to prove.

I like to talk. I like people who like to talk. But there is a shift that happens somewhere later in life, if we are lucky, where we realize that talking about ourselves precludes us from learning about others and that others need to be heard. Rick Warren, whom I had the pleasure of hearing speak years ago, opens his book The Purpose Driven Life with these profound words – ITS NOT ABOUT YOU. Those words, when fully digested, are life changing. The paradigm shift from self importance to selflessness is a gift and the younger it hits you, the better off you are.

Remember the scene from Casper the Ghost, where Casper becomes a real boy, but somewhere later on in his enchanted evening he begins to fade and is no more than an apparition? This, I find, is 40 or motherhood or marriage or wisdom. We somehow fade from everyone’s view but our own and that is where the wisdom lies, in seeing ourselves as we see ourselves, and not through the eyes of others. It is more than the idea of not caring what others think. I do deeply care what others think and it is a useful guideline for how we conduct our lives, but, there is freedom in having nothing to prove. This is less my personal experience and more my observations of the graceful and brilliant among me. Every day I see people who have achieved a level of comfort with themselves such that they seem to float across the room rather than amble. I can only assume that they are the ones who have walked through the fire, lived, and learned enough to know it is best next time to just go around.

Pass the Pepper

A decade ago we bought two rats to begin the process of introducing pets into our family. Despite their unpleasant reputation, domestic rats generally do not bite and will not run when dropped like gerbils, making them appropriate pets for small children. At $3.00 per rodent, this seemed like a good place to start. One was the color of a latte with too much milk and not enough foam and the other had common black and white markings. They were considered medium size fancy rats; though I think the word fancy was used loosely. Medium size means the tails are thin enough not to have that pronounced scaly look and feel. Something about the large class of rats made me feel more like they had been freshly plucked from the New York City subway or were out-of-work cartoon villains. Our daughter named them Sandy and Pepper and they were absolutely adored. On one occasion, she placed Pepper, the black and white rat, on her shoulder and innocently declared "Her my beffriend!"

Early one morning, before anyone else had woken up, I made my way to the kitchen for coffee. I glanced at the rat cage to find Pepper looking especially asleep. Deeply asleep. My instincts implored me to wait on the coffee and check on Pepper. If perhaps she was departed I had better make a plan before that sweet little three year old awoke. A couple pokes of Pepper’s stiffened body and I knew I was in for a long day. I lifted the lifeless rat’s body out of the cage and placed it in a shoe box perhaps in preparation for some later ceremony and because, unlike goldfish, rats cannot be flushed. In actuality, I had no intention of holding a rat memorial service, because I had no intention of breaking my daughter’s heart with this news. I placed the shoebox in the garbage and started to hatch my plan. Upon waking, my daughter went straight to the rat cage as she always did and asked where Pepper was. Quickly- and to this day I am still unnerved by my ability to lie on my feet- I told her that our babysitter had taken Pepper to school for Show and Tell and that she would be back later. I cringed thinking about what I would have said had Pepper died on a weekend.

For the balance of the day I searched Northern California in a 3 hour radius to find a rat with color and markings similar to Pepper's. At the risk of sounding insensitive, it would have been markedly more convenient had solid colored Sandy met a premature demise. After hours of looking, dozens of shady pet shops and hundreds of miles driven I bought the closest thing I could find to Pepper. I placed the new rat in the cage with Sandy and was relieved to find out that they peacefully coexisted.

When my daughter came home from preschool she went straight for the rat cage, pulled New Pepper out, gave me a suspicious sideways glance and said "Momma, Pepper got paint on her!" She had noticed the one unfamiliar black spot on this rat's tail. I explained to her my emerging theory that rats get new spots as they get older and that this phenomenon had taken place while at Show & Tell, a no doubt maturing experience for any young rat. She silently examined New Pepper for any other signs of this incredulous transformation as I sat on pins and needles hoping I would not have to come clean. I would have relived, a thousand times, any past hurt in my life to avoid this one for her.

A few months earlier a bird had flown into a friend’s window and broke its neck. She brought her two year old outside to see the dead bird. There, in the mulch, they had a discussion- 30 year old to 2 year old- about life and death. For me, I decided to let the magic of childhood go on a little bit longer.

She finally accepted New Pepper and they had a few more years together. We did eventually have to address the issue when New Pepper died years later and my daughter was better equipped to handle the loss. In hindsight, she was exceptionally perceptive and may have known something was not quite right, but she let it go and enjoyed her pet. In the years that came next we tackled similar truths, like the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus, but never lost sight of the lesson that sometimes it is better not to overanalyze and just grab hold of the joy.

Tearing down Walls

As a rule, I like change. I enjoy moving and all that it entails. I like making new friends, having unfamiliar vistas, and feeling anything but complacent. A few years ago, we bought a post and beam farmhouse. Generally speaking, post and beam construction means that no interior walls are load bearing and any and all conventional interior walls can come down without incident. This is good, because while I welcome and encourage change, I am less captivated by detail. I delight in the garden destruction that is necessary in fall, but am far less enthusiastic about the design and replanting demanded by spring. I am, as I have admitted in the past, a bit of a ‘bull in a china shop’, not out of clumsiness but as a result of enjoying the process of making a mess. I do, however, clean up my messes…eventually. As an aside, when change is mixed with spontaneity, I am flat out enraptured.

Some years ago my daughter asked for, and received, a sledgehammer for Christmas. My husband and I both found the request endearing and the idea of owning a family sledgehammer selfishly inspiring. While she was instructed never to use it on her sister, we have many times since put it through a wall to instigate a remodeling project. Recently the sledgehammer found itself embedded in a wall to the north of our mudroom. In our neck of the woods, a mudroom is a necessity. Your only option to not having a mudroom in this climate is to have a mud house. Mudrooms have tile floors, shoe racks or trunks, and hooks aplenty! They are virtually indestructible and their existence keeps the rest of the house orderly and free of sludge. Our idea was to connect the mudroom to both the kitchen and the living room to capture infidels who entered the house through the living room door as opposed to coming in through the mudroom. Dirty shoes, snowy clothes, wet beach towels and assorted backpacks frequently litter the living room floor because, after all, the mudroom is seemingly too far away. Not anymore. Now whichever door you enter through the mudroom, with all of its convenient storage and coat hanging options, beckons. No excuses.

Admittedly, North Country farm living is not for the faint of heart, weak of spirit, or neat freaks. There are animals, muddy shoes, snow that blows inside and dirty jobs to keep one busy from sun up to sun down. That being said, everything needs a home, even shoes and coats, and I appreciate a clean and uncluttered floor. I have many nights told my children that I cannot kiss them goodnight in their beds unless I have a clear unobstructed path from their doors to their beds. I have stepped on too many Jax in my life, and while a good night kiss is imperative, it should not be cause for a puncture wound.

There is a time and place for order and for chaos. Order keeps the chaos manageable and balances impulsivity making it safe to be so. I am running out of walls to bash my sledgehammer through, yet I am marveling at the consequential look of my surroundings. Ironically, it is novel and fresh; and yet, it is unmistakably home. Tucked amongst the oversized tapestry pillows of my living room couch and looking straight through to the kitchen, I am grateful for open and airy spaces and wonder how long it will take the impulsive carpenters who made it so to put up baseboards and trim. Details…

Remains of the Day and Rebirth

As an evolving writer, I subscribe to numerous internet sources of encouragement. Strangers fling topics via Twitter in an attempt to thwart writer’s block and instigate imagination. Despondently, I offer that I can’t work this way. Having an unknown entity tweet about “ice cream” and then offer the inspired directive of “Now go write!” just doesn’t send waves of profound thought through my mind.

On this occasion I am too cerebral and too tired to create anything from something unrelated to me. This is not to say that I do not enjoy stumbling upon random, unrelated thoughts of my own to weave together into something cogent.

Tonight as I watch the sunset turn my outside view into subtle hues of cayenne, olive, and heather, I am feeling the slightest chill on my bare shoulders and accepting that the fading summer invites the resurrection of ritualistic bath time – a fall and winter benchmark. So tonight, we explore the Remains of the Day and Rebirth...because we can and why not?

Years ago I remember a particularly late night struggling through a college paper, fighting for inspiration and for the ability to stay awake and finish it. We find encouragement in the oddest places, and in that moment I self-soothed by assuring myself that ‘nothing in life will ever be that hard’ again. What I wouldn’t give now to regain the simplicity of those days. Though, as I tell my children on the occasions of their insistence that they are correct in a given situation, “I was as smart as I ever was at the time”.

Equally equipped and burdened with the souvenir of experience, I now recognize that complexity and pandemonium are talismans that graciously accompany age and family. The key to the city is knowing how to breathe it all in at the end of the day and feel appreciative and renewed. I worked with an older gentleman many years ago, who by all appearances had a less than charmed life, but you could no more than hand that man a pen and he would look you in the eye and say, not a colloquial ‘Thank you’, but “I’m appreciative”. And I believe that in every instance he was. Somewhere in his life he learned the value of gratitude; that everything, down to the pen he was handed by another, could be taken away and he was not going to miss an occasion to express his gratefulness for what he did have.

Some days we know enough to give thanks for grass, and sunlight, and for turtles that take their time crossing the road in front of our cars forcing us to stop and just watch their journey. Other days we ache for bedtime to shove one day out of the way and shepherd in the next. Years ago, around the Thanksgiving table, we all shared the treasured things for which we were thankful. When the gratitude soliloquies came around to my youngest daughter, then about 3, she said “I am thankful for doors”. We all laughed but have since humbly valued the promise of our many doors to keep out critters and keep in heat! Every Thanksgiving since, we have never failed to acknowledge our gratitude for doors as homage to the recognition of the uncomplicated. Not so simple a thought after all.

My landscape has vanished behind the veil of night, the prolific mosquitoes are beginning to give up their pursuit, and the cool air forces me to slip a blanket over my shoulders. I am grateful for the sweet summer that is now passing before my eyes. New England is awe-inspiring. Effervescent summers and radiant falls offer a reprieve that gives its inhabitants the potency they will need to prepare and thrive in the winter ahead. One more day passes and drags with it an opportunity for acknowledgement of our abundance - one less chance to see a silver lining. Life is many things, but mostly … it is short.

From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere! ~ Dr. Seuss

There are times when people who write have to do just that. We grab menus, forms, gas station receipts, and paycheck stubs, flip them over and capture the thought stream that charitably surges through our brains. The flipside is also true. Sometimes creativity is entombed in mental concrete. I savor the moments when life flings you colorful caricatures on which to build. Sitting in my daughter's audition this morning I experienced a profusion of characters that both stirred my imagination and forced me to exercise sturdy pre-coffee restraint.


I sat quietly alone in the back of the theater eager to learn the process of becoming the mother of a would-be actor. To my left was a well seasoned stage mom forcing her son to drink from a water bottle to keep his - and I'm quoting verbatim here- throat moist. As I watched the boy reluctantly take several gulps I wondered how he would perform at peak whilst having to pee like a race horse. My daughter and I, on the other hand, had stumbled into the lobby wearing what we only then recalled were explicitly prohibited flip flops and reluctantly handed over our half completed forms. While Moisty and his mom were bathing his vocal cords, I was simply trying not to spill my latte down my shirt while ushering my daughter into the auditorium and hoping the effects of caffeine would hasten my ability to rise to the occasion.

Earlier, during the registration process, I was drawn to the strident and confident voice of a tall man who greeted everyone with preparedness and vigor typically unprecedented at this hour. I was drawn to his charisma. My mind carelessly entertained projections of my husband and me drinking oaky red wine with him and his wife. I pondered the strange process of making new friends at our age and how years from now we would share laughs telling the story of how we met when our youngest auditioned for local theater. Later my first impression would be shattered as first impressions often are despite the 'lasts a lifetime' myth.

I entered the auditorium, settled into my back row seat, pulled out the book I am reading and dove eagerly into the world Chris Bojalian creates in Secrets of Eden. I was jarred from my story land bliss by a rhythmical drumming that shook my seat every few seconds as though a Brachiosaurus was making its way ever closer to the high school gymnasium. Looking around in all directions, it seemed no one else felt this sensation. It appeared to be localized and I was alone to asses my safety. I closed my book and tapped fully into the feeling. I recognized that the relentless drone of the voice behind me was coming from the man I had only minutes earlier been fantasizing about. The only constant in the room was his voice talking incessantly at a helpless man while hitting the row of seats in front of him for emphasis which sent reverberations down the entire aisle and into my seat. I learned also via his self-absorbed pontifications that the man he was talking at was a police officer and I wondered if he was carrying a gun. If ever an individual might snap and shoot someone, and perhaps justifiably so, this was that occasion.

After a parental briefing the lot of us was excused. Children were led into the auditorium in small groups while the others mingled with the adults in the lobby awaiting their turn. I went back to my book only to be interrupted again. I am, by nature, a people watcher and this was the mother load. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Moisty and his mom had appropriated the seats that had previously been occupied by a busy mother and her rambunctious toddler. By all rights, the mom -who purposefully left behind her diaper bag to mark her territory in the crowded room- abdicated her seat when she took her toddler to the bathroom. Mama Moisty pounced on the opportunity as only a water pusher could. Upon her return the evicted mom gently offered that the bag Ms. Moisty had moved, now on the table, was in fact a marker left behind to hold the bench open. The toddler was a tiny being of no more than two and capped with a head of curly blonde hair. Her mom was a once pretty woman who was now visibly tired and worn thin. Ms. Moisty, a large woman by common standards, looked up at her and offered only that she had been unclear if someone was sitting there, but she made no gesture to relocate or to scoot over. She and her damp throated boy were now engaged in a full blown game of dice in the space between them. The mom and her toddler took their ineffective diaper bag and played cards on the cold unforgiving linoleum.

Back to my book. Silence again was broken this time by a boy defiantly shouting at this mother as she whispered for him to turn his iPod down. It was a cartoon strip moment where he was unaware of how loud he was with his ear buds tucked in his ears. As he yelled, she instinctually put her hand over his mouth which made his eyes bulge with surprise or perhaps due to the inability for his breath to escape through any other available orifice.

Just as I became sucked into that moment, my sweet daughter emerged from the dark and intimidating auditorium. She took her number off her shirt, handed it in, assured me that things had gone well within and we were out of there… leaving all those characters behind, but surely not forgotten.

What Lurks in the Woods

I like to camp. I feel capable, simple and strong in the woods. I take pleasure in fashioning retractable bear-proof garbage systems in trees and using my Swiss army knife to solve problems. Being without modern amenities and setting up a tent takes me back to cherished days on the Pocantico Hills Camp bike trip when dirty was a state of mind and sweaty was a sign of triumph.

My father did not like to fly and so each summer we drove the 24 hours from New York to Florida in the most efficiently packed vehicle on the road. Prior to departure, my father would evaluate our luggage and the available cargo space of our Ford Bronco, then mastermind the most geometrically superior packing plan ever created. He would create a comfortable space in the back of the Bronco for my brother and sister and me to lay down with our pillows, blankets and books. Our vehicle was miraculously transformed into an RV every year and we were never short of amazed. As a result, I am convinced that in the area of packing a truck for a trip, I am genetically gifted. Sadly, my husband feels the same way about his own skills and so at the inception of each trip I bite my tongue and watch him pack the bed of our pickup. Admittedly he does an excellent job packing the bed, but then seems to forget a number of things including all that our children have packed and by the time the superfluous items are loaded into the back seat all that is discernable is a pile of possessions with four little blue eyeballs peering out from within it. Off we go!

We camp in the Adirondacks. Our entire road trip from front door to campsite is breathtaking and that truth is never lost on any of us. Due to circumstances beyond our control, we were forced to try a new campground on our latest outing. We arrived at the main office to find an old gas hearth outside with a filthy couch in front of it, I suppose in case one fancied sitting in a roadside parking lot on an infected couch gazing at a sham of a fireplace. In addition, there were two dozen motorcycles and bikers in the lot. As we assessed the situation we assured ourselves that the biker group must have only stopped to gather supplies at the campground’s convenience store. Minutes later they left and we were relieved. As my husband got out of the truck to check in, he offered us a comforting farewell, “If I am not out in 15 minutes, send someone for me”. The girls and I locked the door behind him.

As we headed to site 19 we were unnerved to find that the sites were extremely close to one another with no privacy. For those that do not camp this means, among other things, that you will either get up and walk all the way to the actual bathroom in the middle of the night, or you will hold it until morning. As a camping family we all get into the act and have a comfortable campsite with dining tent, sleeping tent, cooking station, campfire ring and hammock erected within 30 minutes. This was an impressive home for the next two nights, indeed. Moments into our camping adventure we realized that our fellow site mates did not speak English. All of Canada had come to enjoy the Adirondacks this weekend as well it seemed; and, as English speaking Americans we felt like foreigners in our own land.

To our dismay our site mates were young, loud and drunk making our home away from home so unappealing that I gave pause to consider sleeping in the parking lot, on the contaminated couch, in front of the broken fireplace. As I attempted to settle into my sleeping bag, I was struck by distant thunder. A loud roar built in the distance and rumbled toward us like an earthquake. As I considered the possibilities of what act of God would sweep us from our beds, the ground shook and the procession of Harley Davidsons made its way into our campground highlight after headlight. Later, I was pleased to learn that while their late night entrance was unsavory, the bikers were far more courteous than our foreign friends. Despite my family’s cornucopia of sleep aids, from iPods to ear plugs, I stayed awake all night protecting my young from the potential hazards of insolent heathens.

The Adirondack weather graciously provided us with sunny days and cool nights. All in all, we had a delightful weekend full of horse show jumping, kayak racing, swimming and hiking. Cooking together made us feel capable as a foursome and while our Killer Bunnies game turned ugly at times due to our collective competitive nature, the weekend was a success. There was even a bit of culture as we learned that everyone is different, manners matter, and most of all it is hilarious to yell “Fermez la bouche! “ as a family at 3:00am.

Perfect Tommy's

Recently while visiting my home, my mother recalled a story for my children that I had long since forgotten. As I listened to her recount the tale, I was equal parts horrified, captivated, and inspired by my own cunning the likes of which I have at least tempered in the decades that have passed since the incident took place. She told the story of a night about 20 years ago watching a then popular news program-A Current Affair-on television that was featuring a local competition in a New York City bar. As she and my father flipped through channels they stopped for a minute because they thought they saw someone on TV that looked like me. They were right.

David Letterman had developed a ludicrous activity using the magic of Velcro back in 1984. A contestant dressed in the hook side of the Velcro material would leap from a tiny trampoline and attempt to stick onto a wall made of the loop side of the Velcro material. The object of this competition, and I use the term loosely, was to stick as high up on the wall as possible. This ingenious ‘sport’ became known as “Human Bar Fly”. A New York City pub called Perfect Tommy’s hosted a weekly “Human Bar Fly” night. On one of its first nights holding the event I begged a dear friend of mine to accompany me to Manhattan so I could try my hand at this sport.

I am a bruiser by nature, a bit of a bull in the proverbial china shop. So this activity was appealing to me. I did not tell my parents where I was going, nor did I make the mental leap between the camera crews on site and my truancy. Once I got there I remained focused and my objective was clear. There were several dozen contestants and the event was initially divided into men against women. I won in the female category. The winning height was measured by how high your feet were off the floor. While you were stuck on the wall a small group of judges would measure your feet to floor distance, briefly confer, and then viciously peel you off the wall.

While I was an athlete’s athlete among the women I was simply no match for the conqueror of the men’s category and to declare an ultimate champion he and I would have to go head to head. In a tremendous show of chivalry my rival geared up to go first for our final show down, the crowd cleared a corridor for him to run down, and with every leg muscle bulging from within his Velcro suit he began his run toward the wall. His powerful spring from the trampoline was impressive and his belly hit the wall high and hard like an ejected F16 pilot. He stuck it high. It was physically impossible for me to jump that high.

Koichi Tohei, the founder of the Ki Society and the practice of Aikido said, “Power of mind is infinite while brawn is limited.” And so an out of the box, or off the wall strategy if you will, was imperative if victory was to be mine! I quickly clarified the rules and verified that the measurement was simply feet to floor. With the information affirmed I zipped into my navy blue suit, took my place on the starting tape, scanned the floor for beer sludge or any other possible impediments to my success and began my run at the wall. Rather than the hard leap on the trampoline that my adversary had taken, I took more of a balanced and calculated bounce this time and then made a strong, close to the wall, head first front flip sticking to the wall upside down, back to the wall, with my feet high above my head and way above my opponent’s marker tape! Ingenious.

I won the admiration of every beer infused patron at Perfect Tommy’s on that night, the adoration of my friend (which I already had to begin with) and an on air interview on A Current Affair which would later prove to be my unraveling. In researching for this blog, it turns out my brilliant flip has been used by the masses since, as you can read for yourself in the following 1992 Newsweek article. http://www.newsweek.com/id/125528.

That clandestine trip to Perfect Tommy’s gave way to a hilarious night back in 1991 even after the news program aired my interview, and it made for even more memorable giggles with my family nearly 20 years later in a sleepy farm house. A good night, indeed.

A Bird in the Hand

I get pleasure from irony! It wakes me up, smacks me on the tush and makes me walk taller. It is incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs. This morning while balancing my latte as I drove, I swerved my minivan to avoid a Robin that had made a most daring left bank into my path. In doing so, I nearly caused a head on collision with an oncoming SUV. It was a dazzling start to my day!

When my children were small I felt sure that I would meet a regrettable end careening down our staircase after tripping over a Polly Pocket playhouse left precariously at the top of the stairs.  I made my husband swear that, upon such an ill-fated occasion, he would write a wonderfully descriptive obituary that would claim my demise was a result of a heli-skiing accident and that he would groom the kids accordingly so they would support the bleak tale in their preschool, thus leaving me in memoriam with some shred of dignity.

Even now the idea, that I would perish trying to avoid the great Turdus Migratorius is fitting in an oddly satisfying sense. I have leapt willingly from airplanes, flown them solo a time or two, taken 1200 pound horses over stone walls, and dove down to the ocean depths with sharks, but today my obituary nearly read “died tragically and suddenly while irresponsibly drinking her morning coffee and maneuvering her minivan out of the path of an oncoming songbird”. As I brought the vehicle I fondly refer to as the MomBomb, which ironically emits a gentle airplane-like engine hum, back under control I remembered the days behind the yoke of my Cessna and laughed at the irony of this day and the many many days that had passed between then and now.

How had so much changed? There is a canyon like chasm between bypassing ultralight aircraft or even birds in flight under a parachute canopy and this. As an avid skydiver, I have spent many days mixed among clouds and azure skies doing the former and yet to use the term 'distant memory' is hardly descriptive enough. Continuing my drive to work, I laughed out loud at my choices, and time, and moments that force us to see ourselves clearly. I put my coffee mug securely into the cup holder and surrendered to reminiscences of the past.

Twelve years ago my husband and I boarded a King Air at Bay Area Skydiving in Byron, California. Our three month old daughter was on the ground with friends as we enjoyed another skydive. The engines revved and the smell of jet fuel filled the fuselage; a rush of adrenaline that I had become so dependent on filled my veins. A deep breath, a look around at my fellow jumpers, no doubt a smile from ear to ear and we rolled down the runway. Perfect blue skies. Seated on the floor, I leaned back between my husband’s legs and pressed my back up against his chest.

I had jumped hundreds of times, but the anticipation was different that day and I remember it well. I leaned back with my mouth near my husband’s ear and said “What are we doing? We are throwing both of our baby's parents out of a plane.” I can't remember if he heard me over the engine noise, but I heard me loud and clear. I love skydiving, I miss it, and I believe in it for everyone, parents included. But the irony of our actions that day made me see something about myself I had not seen before. It was my last jump.

I do love a thrill and admittedly adrenaline is still my drug of choice, though my fixes are few and far between. Life is kind that way, there is irony in the ordinary - subtle wake up calls to grab onto gratitude and acknowledge the value of simply being content.

I hope that Robin appreciates what I did for him this morning? He owes me a thank you. And I him.