A Letter To Lola on Her Graduation Day

Lola Moon

I always go to write 'my' when I start a letter to you. It's a reflex born partly of what I think is a fierce and beautiful truth- that you were mine, first, before you were here with the rest of the animals and humans, that you were loved more deeply by me, it feels, than anyone could ever ( even your dad, although that is surely not true, it feels true, because despite being a writer with a vivid, sometimes disturbingly broad imagination, I see things from the same ' I ' place as most of us do ) - and partly from a place of reminding, the way a mother wolf reminds her cub not to walk close to a cliff by nipping his flank. The word is more revealing of me than I care for, of my tendency with all my children to want to hoard them, to keep them close as a pack, forever. In this new world we are expected to toss our children out to the depths of the ocean, the heights of mountains and vast stretches of cities that speak languages I cannot understand, with no strings attached. I am not this kind of mother, and never will be. I hover determinedly over my desire to claim you so that it does not stunt you, or my relationship with you, but I will never be ashamed of or refute my deepest instinct that the love of a mother for her child is a claim that can and should be made for life, because it is in being claimed in the beginning that we can free ourselves truly in the adventure between.

Like most truths in relationships, it has a twin. I claim you, I free you. I do this every day, every week, every year, over and over, and it is the singularly most difficult part of being a mother. It is the singularly most breathtaking part of being a mother. You are eleven. You have graduated today from the Fifth Grade. A monumental occasion in your life, the past five years you have been in the same school, with the same teachers and for the most part, the same circulating group of girlfriends. Your principal, a sweet hearted, kind and strict man, has remained the same, and the line you que up in for lunch remained the same. This summer begins for you in one day, after school ends tomorrow, and you look toward middle school with anxiety. You tend toward anxiety, and today at your graduation I looked up at you on stage with a mix of pride and guilt. I feel badly that you inherited my anxious disposition, the same kind of nervous, jittery snappiness that I remember from my Grandmother, my mother, myself as your mother. I work hard to soothe my anxiety, I eat right and do yoga and read Buddhist books and write, all to calm the beast and see life as it is, and not through the filter of fear. I pass my skills on to you alongside those bad genes, and as I watch you navigate through your worries I know that you are learning well. Although you stood on stage with drawn cheeks and your mouth in a line, you knew to tell me, later " Mom I'm just anxious. I'll be fine when we get out of here. There's too many people. "

This year, your fifth grade year, you matured with a rapidity that surprised me as it filled me with joy. Your friend who had moved away and out of school, then moved back, moving into your circle again, she called you filthy names on your Ipad messenger, and you threw yourself into my arms sobbing, hardly able to talk, to tell me, show me. You were devastated. The very next day, after I walked into the school office and reported this,  you began creating a film about bullying. You created a script, held auditions at lunch and recess, and filmed an entire movie about the different ways that kids bully in elementary school. You were the writer and director. You see what I am saying, sweetheart? You are an artist. This is what artists do: take life, and create something from it. This is what strong people do. This is what you did.

You danced in the talent show with two friends, facing your fear of audiences and diligently creating your dance moves and practicing for two months before the show. Your smile beamed from the stage. You loved your baby sister with an utter and complete devotion, sniffling her feet, tickling her tummy, yelling at her in anger when she drags your beloved American Girl dolls from their carefully made beds in your room, bathing with her, reading to her in bed, smacking her booty, kissing her with 'chunky kisses', pulling her hair tight into ponytails while she protested, picking out outfits, cleaning up her messes, holding her hand on walks, criticizing her father and I when we make parenting choices you don't agree with.

This year you dealt with the complex, baffling and sometimes cruel social entanglements between young girls. I watched your sweet and innocent demeanor slowly harden a bit. You are no longer innocent in the way you were before this year began, before girls tore you apart and spit you back out, at one point walking alone at lunch for a handful of days, no one to talk to. You began to internalize some of what you were experiencing instead of working it all out with me, which is what happens when you are 11. Some places inside of your mind and heart are becoming private. I look into your eyes and see those tiny rooms where I am not allowed, and I thrill with the excitement of seeing you blossom at the same time I give a small sigh of sadness to watch you move away from me. 

It was a long end of the year, the last few months you watching your friends, one by one, hurt and harass and call each other out. At times I had to remind you, ' Don't be bossy '. Another trait of mine from childhood, my mother tells me, though I don't remember. You want to control things when they get messy, like all of us. The hardest part of this year for both of us was how your loyalty and love were discarded by certain friends. Once you love a friend- and you do love, not just 'like for this week'- you are loyal, to a fault. I tried not to lecture you- and failed- a number of times on how loyalty to someone who is kicking you when you are down is actually disloyal to yourself. It was physically hard to restrain myself from hunting down some of these girls and scaring the shit out of them, a la This Is Forty. I wanted to. I really, really wanted to. I didn't. In some of these girls, many I've known since they were five, I see reflected in their mannerisms and faces and speech the shallow cruelties they feel inside themselves. Silent wounds that they do not refer to directly, but indirectly in the name calling and bullying and hair flinging mocking of other girls. So it begins.

You are gloriously creative, off beat, loving, kind, imaginative, generous and true blue. You are funny, quirky and a beautiful singer and dancer. Your older brothers adore you and protect you and stay up late watching Saturday Night Live with you. Your dad tickles you and kisses you and takes you to the ballgame for a dad/daughter date night- he is a little terrified of you suddenly, the way you are terrified of middle school. He is a man approaching middle age, and you are an 11 year old girl who, we were told for the first time, a boy who lives in our complex 'likes' now. Everything is changing, and yet what is essential remains. Your family. Your soul. My girl.

Love,

Mommy

Same Family, Different Lives

Lola looks like my sister, and a small bit like me. She owns, like Lura, a four letter lyrical name beginning with L so it was meant to be. Her arms and legs go on forever, slim and coltish. She tans in a blink. Her eyes are huge and blue and framed with delicate blonde eyebrows. The nose is shaped and interesting, not as small as mine but not as large as Dakota's. Her mouth- my sisters, bow shaped and smallish, expressive and keeping secrets while singing away the world.
She has my sister's delicate chin and my sister's awkward, adorable way of walking and swinging her arms and trotting endlessly on those lean legs. Long feet, long piano playing, artistic fingers, so unlike my farmer's wife hands, wide and utilitarian like my fathers.
Lola was born underwater, and when the midwife lifted her dripping, squalling self to my chest, the first thing I saw and caught in my hands were her hands, her fingers, so incredibly feminine I didn't need to see anymore to know this was a girl baby I was holding. My Lola. My girl.
Lola rolls along as the third in our family, experiencing, the way kids from larger families do, an entirely different childhood than either of her much older brothers, and different than Ever's will be as well. Dakota and Ian were born into parents just barely out of teenage years, parents who had no money and less common sense than they do now, parents who were less mature and less wise to the navigation of an adult life, with adult feelings, experiences and joys. The boys saw me when I was still a smoker! I quit years ago, and Lola or Ever will never remember that I smoked... Mom smoked? they will echo when the boys bring up a story as adults. The boys experienced some things I wish I could create more faithfully for the girls- a looser, freer and more experimental childhood, with more random trips to bookstores and less expectations. But they also went through things I'm grateful the girls never will- court with the ex's, their parent's quicker, younger tempers, and our mistakes made from ignorance when handling certain childhood challenges in school or behavior. Because of course, we plan on not making ANY mistakes with the girls. We are very realistic now, all grown up.
Lola has a Snow White beauty about her spirit that lights up our entire family, especially during times of stress. She sings to herself off and on throughout the day, in the shower, outside on the sidewalk- beautifully unselfconscious in a way that brings tears to my eyes, knowing how shortly time will allow this. Play with her hard fairy toys or doll babies is still completely easy and comfortable for her, at 8, on the precipice for so much change. She is aware of the different, various lives her friend's lead but does not compare her own to theirs, yet. Her largest difficulties in life arise when the family around her is under a great amount of stress, and she feels it. She is private in the way my sister was, and yet very open when asked the right questions by a caring person. When pressed, she can articulate her experience of life's stresses quite well.
Mommy, I feel really sad when you and Daddy fight. I get a knot in my stomach.
What are you worried might happen? What are you afraid of?
Well I am concerned that Daddy will get really mad at you and you will start crying. Then you might go into the bathroom and cry and I hate it when you cry. And I hate it when Daddy is mad because I love him so much and I don't like how his face changes when you guys fight. And I hate it when you don't want to talk because you are sad. But sometimes I like it because Dakota comes in my room and reads me a story.
That is understandable. That is hard. But it doesn't happen often, right? We don't fight often?
Right.
And you know we always work it out, and even if we are mad, we love each other very much?
Yes.
So even if we have feelings that are hard to have, nothing bad will happen because of it. Everything important is hard. Marriage is one of the most important things for us. Sometimes when you are married you get angry, and that is OK.
silence
Lola? What are you thinking?
Well, it's OK to get angry and cry, but it still sucks.
What can I say to that? Nailed.

I keep thinking about Lola these past weeks, her position in our family and how it will be changed by the birth of her first sister in November. Not only will she not be the only girl anymore, but she will not be the youngest, the baby of the family, even at 8. While many things will stay the same- things I have reassured her about, like nightly storytime and cuddling- many things will change. The energy of family life will alter, and how it is directed toward her. I know a lot about some of these changes because Dakota was almost exactly Lola's age when she was born, but I don't know how it feels to be the only girl, and then, not. There will be many happy changes from this, and Lola has begged us to have a baby for years and is a very mothering little girl to all her friends. She has come with me to my preschool for years and the littles there adore her. Lola was a first word of one of our babies in the infant room! And still, as with everything, there will be an uncomfortable shifting, painful emotions and moments, losses, life moving it's inexorable river of time over our family.
As her mother, I can offer her the solace of conversation, hugs and kisses, alone time, and understanding. And I'm sure Lola in her honest and charming way will inform me of her emotions. I can imagine-
Mom? Remember how I wanted Ever so bad?
Yes?
Well last night when she was crying and you had to stop reading to me and nurse her I really wished for a minute that I hadn't wanted her so bad.
That's OK.
It is?
Sure. Feelings come and go. Loving is not always easy and it doesn't always feel great. Sometimes you can love someone and really hate their guts for a minute.
Oh. Good.

Open Letter to My Sister, Lura

Lura

You've been gone from my life since Lola was born. Six years. My daughter has your eyes, enormous, long fringed, clear blue. I went through a stage, when she was about three? or four?
where looking at her hurt, in my stomach, in my mouth. Her rounded cornflower face, glossy
blonde hair, sloped pale belly, long, long legs. So much like you, so much like you at the age when you were beginning to be hurt, and no one protected you, and your eyes saw what I would kill to ensure my daughter never sees. Remembering you as a girl. Your innocence was radiant. Palpable in your trembling purple veins, paper thin skin, the turn of your impossibly long lashes, but most of all, in the direct clarity of your gaze. ' I have never hurt anyone ' your face said, ' I think this world is safe. ' Then that was gone. You were left strung tightly, arms crossed over your stomach, head lowered in every photo, eclipsed into sobs at the thought of wearing a bathing suit to the local pool. You made Mom come in and help you rearrange every piece of furniture in your room and scrub the walls and closet down with disinfectant. Your hair was braided so tightly you had headaches. You came into my room at night and slept with me, and it is one of the smallest gratitudes I can claim from that time, that I let you. You were always other-worldly, keenly, intimidatingly intelligent, straight A student, violin, your friends wore glasses and had braces and you were never mean, but after a certain pause,

you were truly angelic, you were suffering in complete isolation, and the purity of this never ending burn left you in such distance from the rest of the world ( you told me you left your body, remember, you said ' i went out the window and flew and saw the cat and looked in the window and saw myself and him and i stayed outside the window until i flew back in' and i sat helpless without knowing what to say, i said i love you, i'm sorry of course i said those things but what else... ) that you became distant from your body, your arms cued the fat cells and they folded over and shrank, and you were smaller and smaller, anorexic. A tall girl, 5'9, and you were smaller than I at 5'7, and we were always thin to begin with, so in the later years when you were hospitalized they made you eat, you had to weigh on a scale every day. Meanwhile you stayed knobby kneed into your teens. You had such a ferocious intelligence and beauty and otherwordliness that everyone was attracted to you, everyone. Everyone wanted to see you better. To be close to you. Boys wanted to love you and you wanted to let them but you couldn't, so of course, of course the only one you loved was the one who was far far away from your heart so that when you gave what you had to give to him he turned away and did not want it anymore.

I remember when you went to homecoming and you had chopped all your long hair to the tightest boyish crop and you came home and you told me he likes me so much and you never talked to him again, I remember understanding about that, because I understood much more than I realized at the time, in part because we are sisters, and because I lived in that house, too, because I grew up across the room from you in my room, sending a car with folded notes back and forth when were in trouble, because we were always in trouble, and we understood this long before we could articulate it.

I love you of course I do and maybe you will find these letters on the Internet.

Love
Maggie

Mrs. Whilshey on Stoppat Street

12244 Stoppat Street, the long curved loop of a neighborhood. Like a rope, or a snake, curled tongue to tail, with houses all along the outside and the inside, across the street from each other. Entering the suburban street, houses on both sides, you drove until it started to curve right, and this was where the apartments were, strangely mixed in with the houses; if you kept driving straight instead of curving right with the road, you'd head down an incredibly steep driveway (where I once busted open my knees and arms over the front of a chubby friend's bike as we stupidly attempted to fly downhill on 40$ of thin metal and plastic handlebars) into an underground parking structure. The parking structure was both jail and playground for all the neighborhood children, a place where bullying and terrorizing could happen as easily as hide and seek and Doctor.

Along the right hand side of the street was an embankement that went uphill of trees we kids used for climbing, swinging, breaking arms, making forts. I once lost my stuffed Tiggy there for two horrible days, before I found him and swore never to take him out in the neighborhood again. ( I didn't, and I still have him.) After the curving loop to the right, on the left hand side there were more apartments, where we began living, my mom, dad, sister and I. This was where Mrs. Whilshey lived, a bitter, miserable old lady who probably looked much older than she was due to her constantly pinched and dissaproving expressions, and penchant for overlarge dark clothing and reading glasses. She lived alone, and I always thought of her as the kind of woman who might have poisoned any unfortunate husband with arsenic in his tea, after he left his trouser belt laying on the bed one too many time, or left the sugar lid off again. Mrs. Whilshey could not stand the clamorous and numerous neighborhood children, and my sister and I went out of our way to stay out of her way. We bothered her in every aspect, our playing in the sprinklers in underwear over the hot summers disgusted her, our laughter and screaming infuriated her,
our toys in the common lawn angered her, our obvious lack ( to her ) of appropriate parenting and discipline confirmed her low opinion of us.

She had to pass our small beige apartment to get to her car, and everytime her black pratical shoes slapped by us on the pavement we could feel the radiation of her dislike lapping over our backs like a nuclear pulse. She sniffed and snotted, curled her mouth and curdled her already curled face even more, to be sure we were fully aware of her feelings. We slunk a few feet away and kept playing. One afternoon, I had left my silver wheeled roller skates on the path, alongside my Green Big Wheel, and she knocked like the Wicked Witch on the door, three sharp raps. RAP RAP RAP, my mom was having coffee with the Indian neighbor who was attending medical school alongside her husband and who left their small son Armound in my mom's care while attending class. I stood behind my mother as Mrs. Wilshey spoke.

' Your children are leaving a MESS everywhere. Did you know they were out in their panties
earlier, in the water, and left water everywhere? ' ( Can you leave water when playing in water?
Were we to suck it dry with our mouths? )

' Mrs. Whilshey I'm sorry they left their toys on the walk. I'll- '

' I know, Maam, what you will do. It is what you won't do that concerns me. '

Silence.

' So? '

My mom crossed her arms. ' Mrs. Whilshey? Don't ever come to my door again complaining
about my children unless you would like me to file a complaint with managment about your
continual harrassement of the neighborhood children, which I'm sure the other parents would
be happy to sign. '

Mrs. Whilshey colored sour red, turned, and left.

The next day I sat in my room, flushed with summer heat and bored. I thought of Mrs. Whilshey's mean face, her constant harping, her words to my Mom. I took out a notepad and pen, and began to write:

Dear Mrs. Whilshy

You are a men lady. You are men to all of the kids and we dunt like you. Go away frum
all of us and be a quit persun.

Sined,

Sumone

I put the note in an envelope and took my 5 year old self over to Mrs. Whilshey's door as stealthily as I could manage. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, I slipped the note under her mat, and ran.

That evening, there was Mrs. Whilshey's distinctive knock on the door. RAP RAP RAP
My mom sighed, put down the wet dish to dry her hands, and opened the door. Mrs. Whilshey stood, sour red again, trembling with strange delight.

' Do you know what your child has been up to, do you? That one- ' she said, pointing at me, behind my mother again. I felt sick.

My mother said nothing, and Mrs. Whilshey pulled out a small envelope from which she pulled out a small, badly written note. ' Your child has been writing hate mail! ' She crowed triumphantly.

Mom looked back at me, face unreadable. ' I apologize. ' What? Why was Mom so sure I did it?
Wasn't she going to argue, defend me? ' I'm sorry, Mrs. Whilshey, and we will talk to Maggie and punish her. Thank you. ' and she shut the door firmly.

She turned to me. I looked up at her. ' I didn't do it, Mom! '

' Maggie, ' she sighed. ' You used your Dad's stationary. It has our name and address printed right on the top. '

Oh.

Years passed, and I was in 4th grade, living in an entirely different neighborhood and part of town, where a small old woman lived down the street, in her small decrepit house, alone. I walked by her house often, the front overriden with climbing vine and weed, dirt on the pathway, her windows shut. Occasionaly I would see her come out of her house and open the chipped mail box to retrieve her mail, then head back in. I watched her. I thought of her.

One day, I wrote her a letter.

Dear Lady,

I get really lonely sometimes and I am very sad, you don't know me but I am. And it looks like
you might be sad and lonely too and I wanted you to know that you are not the only one. If you
are mean I'm sure it's because you are just too sad. I hope you feel better and open your windows.

Love,
Me

I left the letter with some flowers in her mailbox.














image by Gabriol via Flickr
story by Maggie May Ethridge March 29 2009

A Decade In Our Family

The birth of Lola Moon. February 7 2002/ Best Start Birthing Center, San Diego, CA. Late evening, stripped down naked, first on bed, then floor, then bathroom floor, finally in the tub, grunting and moaning, howling, pushing her out into the water, candles flickering all around in the darkness as if I were birthing her into the sky surrounded by stars. Her cry. Her blue eyes, nursing mouth, my daughter. Dakota cut the cord.

Marrying Mr. Curry on the shores of La Jolla Beach. My grandma Elizabeth and Grandpa M.D. both still alive, standing stiffly but joyfully against the cliffs, wind in their hair. Lola, an infant, in my arms, eating the rose petals from my organic bouquet. Ian Oliver and Dakota Wolf, 6 and 8 years old, awkward but thrilled, suited and brothers at last. As it was meant to be. My second mother, Corinne, asking me If I do and responding 'I do! I definitely do! ' Mr. Curry and I, best friends since I was 7 months swollen with Dakota at age 19, together at last. As it was meant to be.

Losing Mr. Curry after one year of marriage. Breakdown, swift descent. Fear, failure, confusion.
The slow understanding. The stubborn, stubborn healing. Love blossoming fiercely in desert conditions. Adapting. Surviving. Thriving. Healing not only the immediate rift, but deeper, unspoken and childhood rifts. Becoming each other's sanctuary. A deeper, more profound and mature understanding of love. Peace.

My first publications, but more importantly to me, the rejection that gave me confidence. Submitted my novel in the most stupid, unprofessional way possible: fiction not even completed,several chapters in, still raw, a mess, but I too eager for some kind of outside response to wait:Submission to the major fiction agent on the West coast, Sandra Dijikstra:Waiting.The slow realization I had been a fool, an idiot, a child, to submit so soon, without completion.Then the mailed rejection- personally written by Sandra. Her assertion that I had talent. That the writing was very good. My disbelief. I email her, asking ' Did you really write this? ' And even more amazing, her email back ' Yes, I took the time... ' and more! I have the letter saved, the email saved, to remind me both of my stupidity and of the hope that I can make it. I ruined my chances with this novel and this agent, but her words gave me confidence when I needed it, after years and years of completely isolated writing with no response. I don't join writer's groups. I read, I write. So this human response from this particular agent-- gold.

My sister Lura, moved away over 7 years ago. I haven't had any contact from her since. I wrote her for a year before realizing she didn't live in the apartment anymore, and hadn't for who knows how long.

Mr. Curry building his own business. The long hours, the hard work, the paperwork, the IRS,the pride, the employees, the money. The laws change: workers compensation goes up fivefold. Mr. Curry loses the business.

Our family vacation to Nashville, Tennessee. Lola is 2. She is an angel the whole trip, dissipating my worst fears about the plane trip, the waiting in airports. Tennessee works it's dark Southern magic and we all fall in love. My Aunt and two cousins welcome us into their home for five days. We visit the Jack Daniels Distillery, the thermometer registers 104degrees . Homes cost less than half of what they cost here in San Diego, WITH land. Mr. Curry wants to move. The last day we spend at the Grand Ole Opry Hotel, with it's no holds barred jungle enclosure inside the hotel, complete with birds. We swim in the hotel pool, eat at the restaurants, shop, order movies. The sound of cicadas follow us home.


I am diagnosed with endometriosis, Stage 4. Two years of chronic pain and health issues are revealed as an autoimmune disease which has taken part of my left ovary. I change my lifestyle. We begin to eat almost all organic. I remove all parabens and chemicals from cleaners, laundry detergents, shampoo, soaps, lotions. Three surgeries follow, eventually with a specialist in San Jose for a final and successful surgery. My ability to get pregnant is unknown.

I become pregnant with our much wanted baby. June, 2009.We lost the baby

I get and keep a preschool job that is the best working environment of my life. My boss is an Orthodox Jewish woman born in South Africa who is in her late fifties and more energetic than I, in my thirties. She is brisk and intelligent, conservative and politically my opposite, but I love and appreciate her integrity, compassion, honesty, work ethic, devotion to her staff. My work is close enough so that when I crash and total our car, I can walk to work in fifteen minutes. I am allowed to bring my children to the school whenever I like. Lola attended Pre-K there while I worked, before moving to kindergarten. The girls I work with are fantastic. I have insurance through my work. I love my job.

9-11. I am pregnant with Lola, walking down the stairs, when I see my Grandfather with his hands on his drawn, drooping cheeks, watching the news, my Grandmother with tears rolling down her face. A building is collapsing on the screen, over and over. The camera cuts to the male reporter, who stands with the microphone at an awkward angle, running his fingers through his hair over and over. ' What? I- I- it appears... ' he cannot get himself together. I know something enormous, something horrible, is happening. The single most lasting impressions of that day remain the total confusion on the faces streaming through the streets of New York amidst clouds of toxic dust and fire, and the small, black specks falling through the air- I soon after saw, in a magazine, a close up of one of these images, revealing the very blurry details of a black woman, her skirt, her build. I will never forget her.

We buy our first family dog: Bodie. His family is military and moving to Hawaii and cannot bring him. We surprise Dakota with his dog. They immediately fall in love. Bodie becomes completely and totally and neurotically devoted to Dakota. Dakota is 8. Now Dakota is 15 and Bodie still sleeps on top of him at night, follows him around the house ( with Wolfgang, our next dog ) and mopes at the door while he is gone.

We enter a new and terrifying phase: life with teenagers. Letting go becomes a convoluted and blurry idea.

I stop Myspacing and begin blogging. I never look back. :)

Thank you all for blogging, for being there to read and for reading. I love this world we create together.

Happy New Year!!!!

Letter to Lura

Thanksgiving, November 2009, I am missing you somewhere in my chest, and my guts- almost as if you were my child, instead of my sister, the way the hourglass of my torso reminds me of your absence. Before dinner I wandered Mom's house, and came across a picture of you. Maybe you were 19. You were laughing, one incredibly elegant and long fingered hand held to your chest, the other spread out like a cream colored bird. Your enormous blue eyes like stars. Kneeling down, seeing that picture in the dim lit hallway, it was a blow to my body. I cannot touch you, or talk to you, or hear your voice, or notice the details of your sweet face and figure, the imperfections in your speech that I adore, the flashing smirk of your eyebrows and lips. Lola reminds me so much of you. She is long legged like a colt, enormous blue eyes, chin drawn in a sharp curve, long blonde hair, and more than this, her movements, the tilt of her jawline, these things that are bittersweet reminders of you. I cannot believe my life is being lived without you. I cannot believe that 7 years have gone by without you. It is so impossible to comprehend that truly, I don't. I don't, until I see a picture of you like this, and my rib cage was relaxed and open slightly in a position of vulnerability, and the reality of not-you makes it's way into my body, and am stunned and saddened in a way that leaves everything weak and heavy and gross.

One day, I will search for you.

You know me. You will not be surprised when I do. I will put away my life and my children will be grown and I will simply - pause - everything, and come to find you.

I love you,

your Sister

People In Your Neighborhood

take a seat and read!

This is really important, thought provoking information about what concerns studies are raising over pregnant women getting the flu shot.

After My Sister Died I Became Holey by Jessica Yaeger in Manifest-Station…I really loved this piece, and came back to read it again. The illustrations are very effective with the simple, direct tone of this essay.

Some of Flux's long readers may remember when Chelsea King, my oldest son's classmate, was murdered while jogging near our home. I wrote this about her memorial, which I attended with Dakota and Evan. She was raped and killed by a convicted sex offender, and now years later, her little brother has made a documentary about this loss. 

Carley Moore in Mutha magazine: UNHAPPINESS

Artificial Sweeteners May Disrupt Body's Blood Sugar Controls

One of my best friends and favorite people ever, Taymar, had her second child, a baby boy named Benny. Benny has Down Syndrome, and his older brother Caspian is a little confused about what is going on, because Benny has to have oxygen. Benny has a heart defect that, very soon, will need surgery. So the boys grandmother wrote a letter, ' Why Your Brother Needs Oxygen '. It's pretty freaking awesome.

Mortician, writer, comedian, death activist. Meet Caitlin Doughty  ( anyone else suddenly really want to re-watch Six Feet Under? )

Why We Sleep Together Jon Methven in The Atlantic 

This is gut wrenchingly painful to read ( warning, you may cry ), and beautiful, and stirring. Most importantly, it is a call to live. Live your life, now, right now.