Word of the Year

Every year I choose a word for the upcoming 365 days of my life. This word will live at the forefront of my mind and help guide me to what the year is going to become. One year my word was “Brave”, and because of that word I tried things that scared me, and you know what? Things happened. Some things worked out, some things didn’t but it was pretty incredible how that single word helped to define that year of huge growth for me both personally and in business.

The year I decided to stop working and stay home with my kids was “Trust”. I was letting go of what I thought my life should look like and instead giving my dreams to God, trusting that his purpose was higher than mine. That was a hard year, but I learned so much by slowing down and being present with my kids every day. Last year the word was “Awaken”. The verse in Pslam with the cry of “Awake my soul!” guided me that year. I started to do things for me and ask myself what I wanted to do instead of what others needed me to do. Truth is, I got a little lost in being at home with my kids all the time. Don’t get me wrong it was still a great year, but I did put myself way on the back burner of priority. The hardest part was they never asked me to do that. Looking back now I know that had I taken better care of myself that year at home my kids would have benefited so much more. It’s like I tell my kids all the time: We’re all learning here.

This year my word is “Move”. I didn’t have a specific verse for the year, but I knew as the calendar flipped to 2025 that this year would be one of movement and change. It started with my husband deploying in January. After I dropped the kids off at school that first day he was gone I went into the garage and cried my eyes out as I did push-up after push-up. At the beginning of this year I had to move to keep myself from simply sitting down and crying all day. Bit by bit it got a little easier, and now here we are, almost halfway done with the deployment. I am still moving, but now it’s in other areas of my life. It’s too early to see what is going to happen, but I am excited. Maybe it’s because it’s spring but the dismantlement of the status quo feels nice after a stuffy winter. The garden is being planted and there is finally space for new things to take root and grow. The funny thing is that all of these words kind of go together. To be able to move you need trust, to be able to trust you need to be awake and to do any of this you have to be brave. I guess that’s what life is though right, moving along one word on top of another, one year after the next. It’s building upon each and every lesson and experience we have along the way.

And all it takes to start is to move.

-HR

Talking to Your Kids About Reintegration

The other day the kids and I were sitting at dinner chatting about our cozy weekend we had been having, it had been pouring all day long, when the conversation eventually turned to Daddy and his deployment.

“When Daddy comes home can we all go bowling together? And we can all have a dance party? Like a whole family?” my 5-year-old daughter asked excitedly.

I nodded and smiled, “Of course, buddy. We’re going to do all the fun things when Daddy comes home. It will be like a big Welcome Home Daddy Celebration.”

She smiled and wiggled happily in her seat and put a bite of salmon in her mouth.

Her twin sister sighed and said quietly “I miss Daddy.”

“I know buddy, I do too. It’s hard when Daddy is gone.”

She nodded quietly and I reached for her hand and pulled her into my lap. We sat like that together and continued eating, still holding hands.

“It’s going to be weird to have Dad home though.” chimed in our 8-year-old, who had been quiet up until this point. “I mean, I miss him and stuff and want him to come home, but it’s weird to think of him being here. You know?" He squinted at me, and I could tell he was embarrassed or maybe a little ashamed to say what he was feeling.

I smiled at him and his little face that was covered in so many messy emotions.

“Can I tell you something?” I said, as I balanced my fork awkwardly with my left hand, as my right hand was still being firmly squeezed by my daughter.

“What?” my he asked.

“It IS going to be weird when Daddy comes home.”

My son looked at my startled, like I had confirmed something he was thinking and afraid to speak out loud.

“What?” he exclaimed.

“It’s going to be amazing to have Daddy home, but you’re so right it’s also going to be WEIRD!” I laughed a little, trying to lighten the mood as I reached into my brain to try and handle the situation that had presented itself.

“Remember when he first left? And everything felt weird without Daddy?”

He nodded, taking a drink of water.

“Well, when he gets home it’s going to feel weird getting use to him being home again.”

He just nodded, and I knew I needed to go deeper.

“Here, let me know you.” I said, adjusting my daughter on my lap, “It’s like this” I said to the three of them who were now all listening. I brought my hands up and interlocked my fingers, like a prayer.

“See my fingers? They are all connected into one fist,” They all nodded

“This is like when we’re all together. We’re all home and together and we are used to being together. Right? Now watch…” and I slowly started to pull my hands apart until my fingers were just barely touching each other “This is when Daddy has to leave, and it’s hard and we don’t want him to go, but he has to go do a very important job to help other people, and then…” and I pulled them apart completely and looked around at my kids, who were sitting spellbound. “This is when Daddy leaves. And he’s over here” I said, waving my left hand, “And we’re over here” And I excitedly waved my right hand.

The kids giggled.

“And we have to go for 6 months being apart, and we get use to this.” and I waved my hands at one another.

More giggles.

“And THEN!” I said, my eyes growing big “Daddy gets to come home!” I brought my hands closer together and slowly intertwined my fingers again “And he’s home and we’re so excited, but it’s also super crazy, and weird because we love eachother so much but we’re not really used to being with each other all the time.” I finally closed my hands into a prayer again.

“And that whole big thing is called Reintegration, and sometimes it’s even harder than being apart from each other, because…”

“Because we’re just not used to being together.” my son said with a little smile and a nod of his head.

“Exactly.” I said

The girls smiled and said something like “That’s cool mom!” and went back to chatting and eating their food, and I grabbed my son’s hand and squeezed it tight.

“It’s ok, buddy.” I said looking into his eyes that look exactly like his dad’s.

And I pulled his great 8-year-old body, onto my lap, and we hugged for a minute, until one of the twins made a fart joke and we laughed. Soon the table was back to “Can I have more salmon?” and “Close your mouth when you chew, dude.” and “Can we have dessert tonight, Mom? PLEASE?”

But for those few moments, I sat there explaining this weird life we live to my kids, and I hope and pray that something got through. And just maybe moments of uncertainty, when the countdown is almost done, and emotions are running high they can remember my hands interlocked and that none of this is easy or normal, but it’s going to be ok.

I hope this perspective helps someone out there, because I know I’m not the only one grasping with how to answer these questions. We’re doing great, guys. Don’t forget that.

-HR

Lightbulbs

When you suddenly realize that you should be getting lost in your manuscript world instead of trying to make sense of everything you cannot control in this world.

When you realize that waiting for people to like you is like waiting for paint to dry: it’s pointless and boring.

When you realize that dance parties with your kids are just as life giving as an evening spent with friends.

When you realize you miss running on your rest days and can’t wait to get back at training tomorrow.

When you remember that just because you’re waiting for a homecoming doesn’t mean you have to put your dreams on hold too.

When you realize your daughters dance like you do because you taught them.

When you are feeling lonely in the evening and invite your almost nine year old to stay up late on a school night and make muffins together for breakfast the next morning.

When you realize if you stop doing the work no one is going to do it for you.

When you realize missing your deployed spouse is a gift in a weird, twisted way, because it really does remind you how much you love each other.

Lightbulbs from the past week of life. Do any of these resonate with you? O’ reader?

-HR

Delayed Gratification aka Surviving This Damn Deployment

This afternoon while I was midway through my long Sunday Funday run in the pouring spring rain in Washington, I started thinking about delayed gratification. You see I’m slightly addicted to this tv show. It’s trashy and maybe a little embarrassing that I’ve watched as many seasons as I have, but it’s kind of my one trashy thing that I indulge. Anyway, the reunion aired tonight, and during my run I envisioned myself watching it after getting all the kids in bed. I could smell the mint tea I would brew; I saw the green glass bowl filled with some little snacks (have you ever have Unreal bars? They will change your life.). I imagined being snuggled up in my husband’s sweatpants and sweatshirt and watching this show as a reward from crushing this long run, AND getting the house picked up AND putting all the kids to bed on time.

Delayed Gratification.

I didn’t do these things of course. No, sir. Instead, I took a shower and realizing I still had several hours before I had to pick up the kids from my saint of a neighbor who was watching them, I snuggled on the couch and watched my trashy little show.

Now. Is there anything wrong with this? Absolutely not. AND one might argue that watching the show AFTER my long ass run was in fact delayed gratification, but it wasn’t. Not for me. Instead, it was me giving into what I wanted in the moment and not doing what I should be doing to further serve my future self (i.e getting dinner made, packing lunches for the kids for tomorrow and doing my writing so I didn’t have to stay up late putting in the work, like I am doing now.) Instead I watched the damn show. When the kids came home a few hours later, dinner was late, I was exhuasted mentally from watching trash and then having to put my mom hat back on and walk around on wobbly, exuasted legs that just wanted to crawl back to the couch. So bedtime was also late, and now here I am. It’s WAY past my bedtime for the early monday morning that is waiting for me, all because I wanted the candy now.

Delayed Gratification.

When my husband I were dating one million years ago and he was going through basic training, our only form on communication for the 4ish months was a five minute phone call on Sunday and our daily letters. I still remember the feeling rising up in my chest when I opened the mail box and found a small envelope from a certain PFC addressed to yours truly. Now, sometimes I would rip it open and read the letter right there, standing by our mailbox in the snow, but normally I saved it. I would go inside, and do all of my homework for the evening, check off everything on my do to list for the day, make a cup of tea, and then finally hours after I got the letter, I would sit down with my back against my bedroom wall, and taking a sip of tea, would open the letter. I would read it slowly, savoring every word, drinking up the information from the boy I was quickly falling in love with. When I finally finished I would kiss the letter, and put it in a drawer with all the other letters.

Delayed Gratification.

Damn, right? Like, so much freaking self-control for a baby 20 year old. When I remembered that past version of myself, I realized I needed to step up a little. So I decided my aim would be to delay some gratification in my daily life. Get the dishes done first and then make the morning tea. Get my workout in first and then check social media. Play a round of uno with my kids and then call a friend. And it all sounded so shiny, this picture I was conjuring for myself. Until I sat down to write this post and realized all at once how ridiculous I was for thinking that I needed to work on my delayed gratification, when my husband, and partner and best friend is halfway around the world. When I won’t see him for another REDACTED days. Every dogdamn day IS me practicing delayed gratification, so maybe, just maybe I need to be just a tiny bit more gentle with myself. Maybe it’s ok to eat the chocolate bar first. Maybe it’s ok to watch the show, and leave the dirty dishes on the counter and go to bed. Not all the time, mind you, because I like my shit in order, but maybe sometimes it’s ok to loosen up on everything and enjoy the moment.

HR

IWD

Today is International Women’s Day. On this day five years ago, I was nursing our twin girls who had just turned three months old. We were living in our hip, downtown loft apartment. I had been on maternity leave for over 3 months and was just about to start going back into the studio a few days a week. Of course, the world ended up shutting down instead, but we won’t get into that story this time.

I remember it was a sunny day, which in western Washington is always a good day. I was sitting on our leather couch in the living room, the big floor to ceiling windows were letting in the warm spring sun. I remember looking down and seeing their little faces looking up at me as I fed them amidst a pile of pillows propping all of us up. My eyes darting from one face to the other. It was my first International Women’s Day as a girl mom. I took a photo of each of them that day. One girl with big blue eyes, and one girl with big green eyes.

Even now, five years later as I lay cozied up on our bed, I can see those photos I took of them. I can hear their little cooing sounds. I can smell their baby heads.

Now they are 5 and reading books, playing make-believe and making up dances to their favorite songs. And all of it happened in a blink of one eye. And all of it happened over the span of a million years. There is no timeline, and somehow only timeline when you are raising kids. I will never understand it, and I won’t ever have to understand. That’s the mystery of all of this, and sometimes mysteries are better left to be wondered at.

-HR

On the Effort of Motherhood.

Recently my son has been asking me questions at random.

“What is your dream job?” he asked one morning as we walked from the parking lot into school, his hand wrapped tightly around mine.

“If you could eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?” he questioned me as we sat eating pasta and broccoli at the dinner table one night.

And his favorite question right now:

“Where would you be right now if you could pick anywhere in the world?”

He’ll ask me these questions as we are climbing into the car to run errands or waiting at the dentist office or doing yard work together on a Saturday morning.

My normal response to the last one is always somewhere on a beach with all five of us together. Mom, Dad, and three kids. He always smiles with a far off look in his eyes and says something like “Yeah, me too.”

Part of me wonders if he is testing me with all of these questions. Like he’s trying to catch me off guard during these in between moments of life, to see what I’m really thinking.

He always asks the questions first, and then I always ask him back, and he thinks for a minute and looks at his feet as we walk or pokes a piece of pasta onto his fork.

“Maybe a mattress tester, or an ice cream inventor!” he smirks, eating up my reaction of surprised joy at his declaration.

“Maybe spring rolls, or ice cream” he shrugs his shoulders as he munches on broccoli, and I remind myself for the millionth time to get ingredients to make spring rolls this weekend.

And I can’t help but wonder if he is asking them because he is just curious, or if he’s trying to get into me, past the tired mom mask, and into a crevice of who I really am as a person.

Having kids is nuts, man. Especially when they get to an age where they put you off your guard, and they can maybe see that you don’t actually know what the hell you are doing. But damnit, that you are trying your hardest.

I do hope when I’m all old and grey and they are more successful than me, and wiser, and better humans than I will ever be, that they will know beyond a shadow of a doubt that their mom put in the effort. That they will know that I tried, not that I always got it right in the end, but I put in every spare bit of effort I could.

Effort to play tag with them at the park or answer random questions as I’m slinging backpacks on little shoulders, or when I knee down before them and pull them into a hug and whisper sorry for losing my patience. That I was vulnerable and open and strong and kind.

I hope they remember the effort because raising them is the hardest and most rewarding thing I have ever done with my life. And all of this effort that goes into them, damnit, I can’t really think of a better place to pour my energy into. The effort means something because they mean everything, and I don’t care how corny it sounds.

HR

The Overlap.

“If our life was a Vien diagram our marriage would be the only overlap.”

My husband said that to me once when we were backstage at an event for my previous career. I laughed looking around at the artists preparing for the next showcase, while the audience sat waiting in the front, sipping champagne and eating appetizers.

I thought of that again this morning as I was making pancakes for our kids. Our son was talking to my husband, who is half a world away.

“What did you do today, Daddy?” he asked, his nose scrunching up as he squirmed in his seat.

“Nothing much,” my husband replied. “I worked out, and did a few meetings. We’re trying to rent a yacht, but we can’t find the right one to get.”

“What’s a yacht?” my son asked, pushing himself up in the chair, and resting his chin on his elbow.

“It’s a fancy boat.” I answered without thinking, as a flipped the pancakes sizzling in the frying pan. “Wait,” I said, turning around the spatula frozen in midair “Why are you renting a yacht?”

“Just for work stuff.” he answered nonchalantly.

“Babe! You’re renting a yacht?” I asked again laughing at the absurdity of what I was hearing on this Thursday morning. My husband is the last person I would imagine setting foot on a yacht, let alone renting one.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just a silly work thing.” my husband’s voice was playful.

Our son looked from me to the phone, clearly not understanding what was happening.

I shook my head and returned to the pancakes on the stove.

“OH Dada!” I said, going back to my flipping, marveling at the other life he was living when he had to say goodbye to us.

“OH Dada!” repeated our son, smiling at the phone.

The only overlap is our marriage, this secret world that we have created that consists of the five of us and our abnormally large dog, nestled in a fixer upper near the shores of the Puget Sound. Sometimes it feels like the overlap is small, and we have to protect it with everything in our arsenal. Sometimes it’s bigger, and I wonder what else we will do with this life we have built. But it’s always there. The overlap.

Hello, March.

Hello, March. You sexy beast.

When you’re on the home front side of a deployment each new month is cause to celebrate. I guess he’s celebrating the new month too, but heck this side is all I know. Sometimes I daydream about being on the other side of the deployment, you know the side that actually deploys and goes to foreign countries with a team and a mission. Part of me envies him, you know? The idea of going out into the world… Yeah, sometimes I envy him.

During one combat deployment years ago, I had this reoccurring dream of suddenly being transported to that far off place where my husband was fighting. In my dream I walked through a camp, trying to find where my husband and his team. I knew they were set up at the perimeter of the FOB, but I didn’t know where. It was night, and it smelled like smoke and gunfire. There were bullets crossing overhead. I had a ballistic helmet on, a flank jacket and a kit just like the rest of the team. When I crossed a small hill at the edge of the FOB I finally found him. He was with a few other of his “guys”, they were crouched low behind a stone fence, their riffles balanced on the old rock. I saw his face, full of paint, and focused on the task at hand. The dream normally cuts out when he turned, and our eyes met.

On the same trip I had a dream I would appear at his FOB, but this time it was as he was getting back from a mission. It was daybreak and he was dropped via helicopter. He was carrying his helmet, and his gun was slung across his shoulder. He looked rough. Wild hair, and his face paint was smudged. He pulled out a cigarette to smoke some of the tension from the night away. Once he saw me, I took his hand, led him into a tent, and he laid his head down in my lap. I ran my fingers through his hair and listened as he told me everything about the night he had just survived.

This post was not going to be about dreams I had years ago, but I suppose that’s what needed to come out. Now, I will go to bed and maybe dream about the man that I’ve been saying hello and good-bye to for 15 odd years.

Sweet Dreams,

HR

Move It.

Someone once told that me that energy stays in your body, and you can either let it sit there and take up space or you can use it to do something. My husband is deployed right now. We’ve done this multiple times over the 15 years we’ve been married, but this time something has been different. I’ve been moving the energy from the moment he left.

That morning, the morning he left, we woke the kids up extra early. My husband was getting picked up by some guys from his team and then heading to the airport together. I made hot coco for the kids and strong coffee and tea for us, while my husband set up the Uno cards. We sat around the coffee table, the five of us, and played Uno and sipped our hot drinks. Every few minutes my husband would glance at his watch, and we would enevidably catch each other’s eye. The minutes ticked down until finally a van pulled up to our house. It was time to say good bye. The kids all took turned giving dada extra big hugs, and finally it was my turn. We were both holding back tears as we leaned into each other one last time. We prayed for each other quickly and kissed. Once he let me go I had to turn away quickly to wipe the tears off my face. I didn’t want the kids to see.

We sat on the front steps and watched “Our big daddy man” as the kids call him, walk away from us. Giant duffle bags hanging off his arms and a baseball cap covering his salt and pepper hair. We saw him climb into the vehicle and with one final wave at the four of us huddled on the front steps the van pulled away and he was gone. And with his departure arrived quite suddenly a new energy. It was empty and yet suffocating at the same time. I can feel it even now, clawing its way up my back and resting somewhere right between my shoulder blades.

We have to move the energy and create something with it, otherwise it will consume us.

Is that what my friend said to me? Nah, it must have been more eloquent than that.

The rest of the morning was a blur. The kids got ready for school while I made breakfast and packed lunches. Somehow, we managed to get ready for the day, and even made it to school on time. I was upbeat and positive about the upcoming months and held the kids extra-long before watching them walk into their classrooms. And again, more energy trickled down into my chest.

As soon as I got home and faced our big house that was empty and quiet I knew I had to keep moving. I went upstairs and cleaned up the scattered cereal bowls, and half drunk glasses of water. The chaos from the morning. I mixed myself some pre-workout and sipped it slowly as I replied to texts from friends who had reached out. I could feel the teaars welling up inside of me as I thought about the engery threatening to put me into bed for the remainder of my kid free day.

Instead, I went out to the garage to our gym. I put on loud music that would be at home in any Crossfit box. It wasn’t until after the warm-up and well into my second set of push-ups that I started to cry. Except, I wasn’t crying I was sobbing. My heart felt like it was breaking in two as I tried to envision not seeing my best friend for six months.

I don’t want this post to be a sad one, and I promise I have a point. The point of the story, and maybe something different than I’ve done in the past, is that I kept doing the push-ups. Even as the tears streamed down my face, and snot dripped out of my nose. Even as I ugly cried while Drake blasted from our speaker. I did the damn push-ups. When the workout was finished, I felt exhausted from lifting heavy shit and from the release of emotion that spilled onto our garage floor. That energy that was strangling my chest into a tight ball of hot pain was released into the form of perfectly executed push-ups, squats, Arnold presses and hundreds of small jumps over a rope.

The next day I did the same thing.

Today, six odd weeks later, I am still doing the same thing. Moving energy out and using it to string words together, play with my kids, take care of our home, run miles, and do more push-ups.

What do you do with that energy inside of you? Gotta move it, baby.

-HR

That Girl, erm I mean Woman.

I recently met with a life coach for the first time in… well… my life. It was actually my friend’s mom who was visiting from of state who asked her daughter, my friend, if anyone she knew would be interested in a pro bono initial session. I think the response in my text was something like “OMG. ME! PICK ME.”

I arrived having dropped all the kids off at school, with my laptop, a notebook for taking notes and a cool outfit on. Despite this outside appearance of confidence, I was a ball of nerves. The night before I woke up at 2pm from a vivid stress dream, in which a woman, with a 1990’s mom hair cut (Think Amy Poehler’s hair in that old Mom Jeans skit on SNL), yelled at me for not being good enough at anything I tried and that I should set my sights lower. I woke up, told myself my friend’s mom would NOT be like that, and somehow manenged to fall back asleep.

Ten hours later, I met my friend’s mom, who instantly put me at ease and welcomed me into the session with a hug. I’ll spare you the gory details, in which at one point I cried and more than once I looked at her dumbstruck at the simple things she pointed out about relationships in my life and how they affect me.

Two hours later we hugged good-bye and I drove home. This happened only last week, and in that week so much has changed.

I’ve started to see each decision I make during the day as a chance to be That Girl. You know, that girl we all want to be? Fuck. I want to be her. I think I was here for a while…but it’s been several years since that time in my life.

They say (they being Mel Robbins in the fantastic book “The Let Them Theory” which I am currently inhaling and is also part of all of this change), that people won’t stop doing a bad habit, or start a new one until the pain from doing it is worse than the pain of doing it. Does that make sense? Like today for instance, I had a headache and went to lay in my bed and sleep it off, while the kids played uno. I curled up feeling grouchy and sorry for myself, and then thought “Do you really need a nap though?” I scanned by body. I wasn’t really tired, I was annoyed that I had this stupid headache (I still have it actually), and I was angry that this headache was taking me away from hanging out with my kids. So instead, I sat up and meditated. Now it only lasted five minutes before one of the twin’s came in asking for an after-school snack, to which I said of course and held her hand as we walked into the kitchen together. And in that little moment of choosing meditation over a cranky nap I chose to be That Girl, or That Women (I am 36 after all), and ended up having a great time with my kids. I also took Advil.

Or like this morning, when my alarm went off at 5am so I could wake-up and work on the new book idea before the kids woke up, what did I do? I turned it off, climbed back into bed and feel asleep. Then I woke up two hours later when the kids woke up and stumbled into the kitchen for caffeine and have felt off all day. You, see? I chose NOT to be That Girl, that best version of myself that I know deep down inside of me, patiently clawing her way out ready to show the world her face.

That Girl.

That Women.

Me.

I think that’s what this year is all about for me. Giving that girl a chance to become the woman I really am. And I know that sounds cheesy, and if anyone is reading this (Does anyone read this?), they may be rolling their eyes, but man. This concept is really changing the way I think about myself, and well, it makes me super excited about tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

“What will you do with this one wild and precious life?” - Mary Oliver

What will I indeed?

Night blog world,

-HR

School Lunches

I’m reading through “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott, and in chapter five she talks about school lunches, or rather she prompts her students to write about their experiences with school lunches. She discusses how no matter what state they grew up in or type of school they attended, school lunches and the anxieties and social rules attached to them were similar across the board. As a homeschooler, my only experience with “real” school lunches were from popular culture. So, Anne I’m not sure what you would make of this, but here are my memories of school lunches from the perspective of a homeschool kid in the 1990s and early 2000s

Lunches were informal meals at our house. Mom, or an older sister would call us into the table at the eat in kitchen, or sometimes the dining room table where there would be plates sandwiches cut into quarters, baby carrots and sometimes a bowl of chips.

“Did you wash your hands?” the older sister, or our mom would question us.

We would shake our heads and tromp back to the bathroom. Sometimes we would pretend we lived in a boarding school and line up behind one another to wash up, sometimes we would all try to wash our hands at the same time. Regardless, the counter would be soaked once the four of us were finally clean.

When I was really little, we almost always had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I remember when I was five or six and met a kid who was allergic to peanut butter.

“But what do you eat for lunch?!” I blurted out, not being able to comprehend how someone could get through the day without the sticky substance. I remember once asking one of my older sisters why the little kids always had peanut butter and jelly. I can still see her cutting her exotic tuna fish sandwich diagonally and putting a handful of chips between the two halves. Don’t ask me what sister it was, but the plate was white with a blue rim.

“When you’re old enough to make your own lunch, you can make something else.” she informed me as she picked up her fancy lunch and headed into the dining room. I probably stuck my tongue out at her as she walked to the table.

Sometimes the veggie that accompanied the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches would vary, but normally it was baby carrots. We used to gnaw them down on all sides until only the core remained, which was always sweeter. Sometimes you would get a bad carrot that tasted like pine trees. I’m not sure why they tasted like pine trees, but they always did. And then we would dare each other to eat them. The potato chips were usually ruffles, and whoever got the biggest one was the winner. We would stack them up into piles and see who’s would fall over faster, or break a chip in half and then hold it back together and ask each other “broken? or not broken?”. We were so clever.

As I got older, I remember the type of sandwhich would change. We didn’t always have peanut butter. Sometimes it was cream cheese and jelly, or egg salad or tuna fish. I used to love making myself cream cheese and alfalfa sprout sandwiches. I’m sure we branched out and ate other things for lunch besides just sanwhiches, but I don’t really remember those days. What I do remmeber is that my mom always read to us at lunch time.

We would all sit down and start eating and eventually she would arrive at the table with her plate of food (I don’t remember now if she ate the same food we did). She would take a bite or two and settle us down before reaching for whatever current book we were reading and opening the pages.

“Now, where were we?” she would ask, and all of us would start talking at once, reminding her where we left off in the story.

And she would read and read and read to us. We read Narnia, and The Little House on the Prairie books. We read classics like Little Women and Tom Sawyer and The Secret Garden. Usually, she would only read a chapter or two before closing up the book and reminding us to get out our math books, or history, or go outside and play. But sometimes, when we would finish eating someone would grab pieces of paper and colored pencils and we would push our empty plates (you finished all of your food at my house), to the side and we would draw or color or sketch while Mom read. I would normally draw what I thought the characters would look like or perhaps try and replicate the cover of the book Mom was reading, or try and sketch my little sister as she colored across the table from me. I think I still have some of those drawings, the ones deemed worthy at least. And occasionally, Mom would stop reading to answer a question one of us would have about the story, or about drawing. My Mom was and still is a fantastic artist. I think when I was young, I just assumed everyone’s Mom knew how to draw, and paint and sketch.

For dessert, which we had sometimes, we had cookies, or maybe some strawberries or as a last resort, a handful of chocolate chips from the freezer. We would much on them and maybe sip tea one of the older sisters had made for everyone. Eventually, Mom would put the book down and we would clear the table and do the dishes, and lunch would be over until tomorrow, where we would most likely be having pbj.

-HR

Ground Control to Major Tom. Commencing Countdown, Engines On.

We went grocery shopping the other day. We filled carts with cucumbers, and crackers, bananas and canned tuna. We stocked up on toilet paper, and cleaning supplies, frozen meat and pickles. It probably looked like we were preparing for the end the world, and in a sense we were.

“Wow!” our 8-year-old marveled at the stocked shelves when he got home from school that afternoon “you guys got a lot this time!’

It was the last big shopping trip before you will leave on your six-month deployment, so yes, we did get a lot. You normally stock and replace all of the miscellaneous household items, like toothpaste and toilet paper. You have a system as to what gets ordered and what you buy in store. The cabinets in the hallway upstairs look like the back shelves at the stores we buy the items from. Everything is lined up, everything has its place.

“I feel like it’s my first day on a new job.” I joke as we stand before the open cabinets, while you explain what goes where and when things will need to be ordered again.

“Sorry,” you say smiling “You gotta take over sometimes.”

I shrug not knowing what else to say, because it’s true I will have to take over.

The few weeks leading up to your departure are always hazy with fighting and making love, conversations about financial goals and relearning how to change a tire, just in case. It’s been a caotic mess of tickle fights with the kids, and taking pictures and videos of you playing with them, because soon they will be asking for “Daddy Videos”. The knowledge that soon you will be leaving us hangs around fog down at the beach on a cold winter morning. It sits, thick, permeating every conversation and thought. And then sometimes, the sun shines through the dense clouds. We forgot what is coming for us. everything feels normal and were in the kitchen making dinner and flirting while our oldest sits in the dining room doing homework. The twins play Uno in the living room and occasionally shout with excitement or frustration. Everything is normal, and I forget that the engines are on, forget that the countdown has started. And then I open the refrigerator and grab the milk to add a splash into my evening cup of tea. It’s a sunny, picturesque day until I notice the expiration date on the side of the oat milk and realize that you will be gone before the milk expires. The smoke from the engine wafts around me in the kitchen, as I stand frozen, staring at the carton while you stir something on the stove. All at once I can’t breathe. I remember I’m on the rocket, about to blast off into space. Or maybe you are. Maybe I’m the one left behind. Now and forever, counting down until you come home back to us again. Until dates on a carton of milk won’t trigger silent tears in the kitchen at dinner time.

-HR

Doing Scales

For Christmas my older sister gave me the book “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott. I flipped through the pages and commented,

“Huh, I haven’t read this one.”

“What?” she exclaimed in surprise, and I suddenly felt like a kid admitting I didn’t actually know what any of the cool kids were talking about.

“Oh,” said my sister, leaning in a little closer “It’s really a good one.”

And she was right. I started reading “Bird by Bird” shortly after we returned home from the Midwest, where we spent a happy but chaotic five days visiting my rather massive family. After settling back into our Pacific Northwest home, I picked up my new book and began devouring. By the end of the Introduction, I had tears in my eyes. I told my husband I would be adding the title to my curriculum on becoming a better writer this year. That’s the plan you know, to scribble, and read, and send out, and try and then by the end of the summer hopefully have improved this craft that would ideally be my next career.

In any case, in “Bird by Bird”, Anne talks openly about her father who was also a writer. She describes how she longed for a dad who went to the office and did a “normal” job. I sat there reading thinking the exact opposite, trying to imagine what life would have been like if my father, who is a bit of a genius was a writer instead of a teacher of nuclear power. My dad used to illustrate how everything was made up of atoms and if harnessed, the power of those atoms could power whole cities. I still remember being sick in bed, and trying to follow his words as he sat on the edge of my bed explaining how nuclear power worked to my seven-year-old self. I still don’t fully understand the whole concept, but I’m forever grateful that he took the time to explain high concepts, even when I was a kid.

Anne knew she wanted to be a writer at an early age, and she shared that dream with her dad, who would give her advice and lead by example. In the introduction she quotes one of her father’s pieces of advice on writing. I highlighted the passage as soon as I read it.

“Do it every day for a while. Do it as you would do scales on the piano. Do it by prearrangement with yourself. Do it as a debt of honor. And make a commitment to finishing things.”

I never took piano lessons, but I was in ballet for the better part of a decade, and the number of piles I did at the barre could probably be counted in the thousands. So, I’m going to think of this blog as my own barre, and it’s my goal to sit down and do my piles every day. I know some days will be dull, and the words will bundle together in my brain and not come out at all how I wanted them to, but that’s how you get better. You do the piles, even if your knees crack, and your turn out isn’t great. You keep going. Cheers for putting in the work.

-HR

An Open Letter (of Sorts) on This Side of Deployment

I’ve been piecing this together in my brain for months now. It’s been slow going. Even the title has been evading me. An Open Letter on the Stages of Deployment from the Homefront, or An Open Letter to My Friends on How I May React When My Husband Deploys, or even An Open Letter on Why Despite My Outside Appearance, I Am Not Actually Crushing It. Somehow none of these seem to say what I am trying to say, which is this:

I have a group of amazing friends, women I have known for years, some who live close by and others spread across the country. We have cried together, raised our kids together, danced together. The friendship goes deep, almost cult level some might say. We all have our places in friend groups and being a Enneagram 3 wing 2, I love to help, to entertain, to soothe, to shoulder, to encourage, to lead. I’m by no means the leader, but I have no problem organizing if there is a need. I don’t want to be the center, by I did want to be an actress as a child. I don’t want to take up space emotionally or physically, having been told my entire life that I am the “strong one”. Maybe that’s why I’ve been putting this off. I would much rather make you a meal, or watch your kids for the afternoon, or listen to your problems, then ask for any type of help for myself.

However, as this is not my first rodeo, I know that I cannot come out of this season without help. So here it goes: my cobbled together list of what the next six months might look like and how you can help. But first a tiny bit of education about the emotional cycle of being the spouse left behind as pharaphrased from Military.com

Emotional Stages of Deployment

• Stage 1: Deployment: Mixed emotions/relief the deployment has started. Disoriented/overwhelmed by the amount of responsibility without partner. Numb, sad, alone, withdrawn, increased anxiety. Sleep difficulty. Security issues at home while partner is gone.

Time Frame: 1st month

• Stage 2: Sustainment: New routines established. New sources of support. Feel more in control. Independence. Confidence ("I can do this"). Trying new activities. Outgoing. Inviting people over/wanting to be invited and included.

Time frame: months 2 thru 5

• Stage 3: Anticipation of homecoming. Excitement. Apprehension. Burst of energy/"nesting". Annoyance at time moving slowly. Difficulty making decisions. Constantly talking about spouse to anyone who will listen.

Time frame: months 5 thru 6

What’s a friend to do?

My husband has been deploying with Special Operations for over a decade now, and I’ve watched him deploy countless times. But I’ve also been on the other side, watching my friend’s husbands deploy and trying my best to be there for them. Here are some ways to support.

Stage 1: Deployment (Month 1)

What she is going through: Your friend is grieving her normal life with her spouse. The month before he deployed was very stressful for their marriage, and probably filled with fights, emotionally pulling away and very little down time to enjoy one another. Your friend is at her rawest form at this stage. She is numb. All she wants to do is sleep until her husband returns, but with three little kids a nap is not even an option.

How to help: offer to come over after the kids are in bed and be a shoulder to cry upon, drop off dinner, send her flowers, invite her to coffee, a walk, offer to come over on a Saturday and do her dishes. Fold her laundry while she cries or stares blankly at the closest wall. Tell her she’s doing a friggin great job. Don’t ask if there is anything you can do. Just show up. Remember she is numb and doesn’t know what she needs. Also, now is not the stage to gripe about your partner. Your friend does care, but she can’t handle that right now. Find another amazing friend to talk that one through. Above all: When she tells you she’s fine and doesn’t need anything know that this is not true and find some small way to help her anyway, even asking how she is doing is helpful.

Stage 2: Sustainment (Months 2-5)

What she is going through: Your friend probably seems really good now! An entire month has gone by, and she is getting the hang of life without her spouse. The kids are used to only talking to Daddy occasionally and are probably sending him letters and care packages. Your friend is probably excited about life (as much as she can be) and want to stay busy with new and exciting things to make the time pass. She also probably talks about her spouse a lot and it’s getting annoying. Also, she’s probably constantly setting goals and talking about her progress. She’s just trying to keep herself busy.

What you can do: Invite your friend and her kids over to dinner with your family. Invite them on a family outing with your family. Coordinate playdates after school. Remember that weekends for her are trying to entertain three people alone, so offer to help if you can. Don’t be weirded out if your friend’s kids are suddenly obsessed with YOUR husband. They just miss their dad. Talk to your friend. Be open about your life and know that your friend has more emotional bandwidth now. You can lean on her too. Listen while she talks about her husband and know that she doesn’t think he is better than any other husband on the planet, it’s just she has to talk about him to remind herself that he still exists out there. I know it’s annoying but trust me she’s not trying to be annoying. Chances are she’s annoyed with talking about him too. Support her goals, even if they are a little intense, and ask how progress is going.

Stage 3: Re-Deployment Stage (months 5-6)

What she’s feeling: Girl, she’s feeling a mess. Your friend is crazy excited, but also nervous, and scared, but at the same time she can’t wait. She can’t wait to be able to lean on someone for support around the house, and with the kids. At the same time, she is nervous about the reintergration stage after her husband comes home, did he change? Has she changed? Also, she cannot wait to get laid.

What you can do: Keep it up, lady! You’ve been doing a hell of a job supporting your friend. Be excited with her that this deployment is almost over! Ask if you can watch the kids while she gets her hair cut, go shopping with her to pick out a cute outfit to wear when she picks up husband. Help clean the house before homecoming if she asks. Bring over dinner a few times during this stage. Your friend’s brain is a little scattered with excitement and nervous energy. Most of all, know how much your friend appreciates you and your support over this time. She’ll probably send you a sappy letter or a gift when this is all over.

And that’s it! Easy right? Trust me, I know being a supportive friend to a Military Spouse is NOT for the faint of heart, but you are part of the village that is taking care of her so that her husband can globally take care of all of us. You helped make that happen. I hope you are basking in how awesome you really are.

XO,

Helen

Just a Backpack

Yesterday, I was out in our garage working out. I am a runner by nature, and since I like a challenge, I have been focusing on weight training the last few months. It’s been hard but rewarding. So, I’m out in the garage lifting and decide that in between sets it would be a good idea to straighten up a little bit. We just finished a big kitchen renovation and recently cleaned out of the kid’s playroom. Needless to say, the garage is packed. Stacks of extra tiles, unused grout, old toys and that wooden Ikea cart that we have since we first got married are sprawled around our home gym. Everything needs to be organized and piled into keep, save, and donate. After a set of 12 dumbbell squats, I shake my legs a bit and look around at the piles of things to be conquered. It’s overwhelming where to begin. I look over at the large shelf by the door leading inside, “Might as well, start here.” On the top shelf I can see an old blow-up kids pool we’ve used maybe twice, a gray backpack, and our canning equipment. I don’t recognize the backpack, and so standing on my tiptoes, grab that first.

The outside is a nondescript gray with black zippers. It’s not heavy as I pull it down from the shelf. “Probably filled with old clothes or something.” I think as I kneel down on the gym mat and unzip the main pocket. The backpack is filled with fabric, but they are not pieces of clothing our kids have outgrown. As a rummage through the contents, I pull out a neatly folded flag. I open it, confused and then comprehension fills me. The flag is covered with illustrations of bombs, RPGs and other tools of war. My brain flits back to a conversation we had after one of your combat deployments. You said it was used to educate locals on what types of weapons the enemy would use. My fingers trace the outlines of the drawings. For a moment I don’t move. I can’t. Then I refold the flag, making sure to crease the fabric exactly as it was before I disturbed its sleep.

At the bottom of the backpack lies another flag. It is folded into a white square. Even before I touch it, I know what it is, what it will look at when it’s laid out. Gingerly, I pull the fabric out and unfold the piece of cloth. It is a white flag, with the long slanting writing found in the part of the world you spent so much time in. I remember when I first saw you unpack this flag years ago from one of your dusty bags after you returned from another combat rotation.

“We took it from a village we overtook and cleared.” you explained nonchalantly, as I stared at the piece of fabric in disgust and fear, as if it was a grenade about to explode.

“I don’t want it in the house.” I said, looking away, not wanting to give the flag anymore of my attention.

“I thought we could put it in our garage gym one day.” you said, shaking out the fabric, and looking down at the black writing. “I’ll hung it upside down right by the squat bar.”

“We don’t have a gym or a garage.” I snap back, looking around at our apartment. “And I don’t want to see it hung up in here.” my body is tense and the once sweet moment of helping you unpack from a work trip has been replaced by the reality that we are reviewing spoils of war.

“But babe, I” you start.

“Please.” I interrupt you, and I can hear my voice shake for a moment, “I don’t want to see it. Ok?”

“Ok.” and your voice is slow and smooth, I can tell you are trying to calm down whatever scared animal the flag brought out of me. “I’ll put it away.” you assure me, refolding the flag and stowing it in an inner pocket of your giant duffle.

Years later and I am back in our home gym, the flag of your enemy spread out on the ground before me. The symbol of everything that tried to take you from me time and time again. I stare at the colors, the black script parading across the white ground. It’s just a flag, a piece of fabric. Yet my body, which felt so powerful and strong moments ago is now turning inwards, protecting herself from everything that could have been. Slowly, I refold the flag and place it carefully back into a nondescript grey backpack. I throw it, on top of the highest shelf, and listen as it slides back out of sight behind the giant pots of pans.

I turn my back on the shelf, on the backpack, on every possible outcome could have taken you away from us and pick up the weights to finish my workout.

I’ll clean the garage another day.

On Soaking Up the Moment

Like all military families across this big wide world, at some point the inevitable happens…your loved one gets orders that they must deploy soon. It’s for the greater good. It’s for the mission. This I know, in my head at least because it is what I have been learned to know. Afterall this is not your first rodeo, and it’s not my first either. Even still, even after all of these years, after over a decade of doing this, my throat still closes up a little when I think about you walking out of our lives once again.

This time the kids are older. This time they have an idea that 6 months is half of one year. Half of one year of their little lives, without you.

I think about this as we roam the aisles at Costco on a Saturday afternoon. The kids are hanging off the cart, while you push through the crowds with your big strong arms. I walk behind the four of you, grabbing items from the shelves you missed, smiling as you tickle the kids or pretend you’re a bus driver and they have to pay to jump back on again.

And I think about going to Costco without you. I will push the heavy cart; I will pretend to be the bus driver and turn a mundane trip to the store into something our children will remember when they are grown. I will step into your shoes and play your games, so they won’t feel the pain of missing you quite so much. At night I will tuck them into bed, and we will pray for you as you live and work thousands of miles away from this home that we have built. I will quietly shut their doors and walk back into the empty living room. I will be without you.

But not now. Now we are sitting on the back deck. It is October, the fall sunshine is shifting through orange-colored leaves. You are sitting across the outdoor couch from me, eating lunch and commenting randomly on an article you are reading. If I moved my foot a few inches forward I would feel your knee. All at once I do just that. I push off my slippers with my feet and stretch my toes out until I find you. I push them underneath your bent knee. They are warm now.

In a few months they will be cold, and I will be without you because you got orders that you must deploy soon.

-Helen

Book Talks: The Anxious Generation

At the beginning of the summer, a few friends and I got away for a girl’s weekend. We stayed at a beautiful Airbnb up north in the Skagit Valley. We sipped drinks in the hot tub in the evening, walked around bookstores and cute little coffee shops in the afternoon and on the last morning over bagels and cream cheese, we talked about parenting.

“This book is totally changing our lives right now.” one friend gushed as we sipped our morning drinks. “My husband cried reading it.”

We all raised our eyebrows. A husband cried reading a parenting book?

“What’s it about again?” I asked taking another sip of tea.

“It’s a parenting book, but it’s about anxiety.”

“Wait, the kids anxiety or ours?” another friend laughed.

“Both!” was the response that quieted all of us.

“The author even did an interview with Dr. Becky!” and with the mention of every Millennial parent’s favorite psychologist, we were hooked.

By the end of our chat I had ordered the book, interested but a little skeptical about the whole thing. Afterall, my husband and I have always said we’re not helicopter parents.

So this summer I read the book. In the evening before bed, at the pool while the kids did their swim lessons, I read, and some chapters I re-read this book, and all I can say is…

Wow.

Social psychologist, Jonathan Haidt's "The Anxious Generation: How the Great Rewiring of Childhood is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness" offers a persuasive case for favoring a play-based childhood over the prevalent phone-based upbringing of Gen Z and Gen Alpha. The book promotes play-based learning as a method to furnish children with the social skills and preparedness for adulthood. It serves as a guide on how to liberate and shield our children from a world vastly different from the one in which we were raised.

This book. This book made me realize how much anxiety I was carrying around about my kid’s safety. It showed me how I had been tailing them, and not really giving them a chance to make their own mistakes. It also reminded me that we’re doing the right thing in prolonging their exposure to the internet. It also convicted me of my own phone useage. Did I tend to go on social media more when I felt lonely? Yes, yes, I did. Did I think clearer when I didn’t pick up my phone first thing in the morning?

The Anxious Generation is going to become one of those books that I go back to over and over again for guidance. It’s also one that I will continue to highly recommend to parents and Gen Z kids who are craving something more than living life through a screen.

-Helen

Get your copy here.

BONUS: I was so grateful for all of the resources I found on The Anxious Generation website; you can check those out here.

A Gemini’s Revelation

My whole life I’ve struggled with how writing would fit within my plans for the future. When I was a kid, and learning how to type on the computer (thanks Mavis Beacon) I would constantly type out the sentence “I love writing, but what about my real life?” Even now as I typed out that sentence my fingers knew the pattern perfectly. My fingers trained to type out the words for decades. Looking back, I don’t know why I had this conundrum. It’s as if even from a very young age I felt the seriousness of writing, the tortured soul. Maybe it was because I watched Harriet the Spy as a kid. I was 9 years old and it was the summer of 1997. That movie changed me. It was my first wide eyed look at what it would be like as a writer and I loved it. I loved that Harriet HAD to write, that she HAD to get the words out. I loved that she was intense and had this frenzied energy about her higher calling in life.

“I want to remember everything. And I want to know everything.”

Her motto became my motto. After all Harriet was 11 and knew far more than I did at a mere 9 years old. In the movie, writing made Harriet a little bit of a loner, because it was work and it was serious. Is that why I’ve put being a writer on a pedestal all of my life? Why I feel imposter syndrome at trying this writing thing because I chose to get my degree in art?

After that fateful summer day in 1997 I knew I wanted to be a writer. I would follow in the footsteps of my older sister (who was an editor for her college newspaper on the East Coast), and major in journalism and minor in photography and work for National Geographic and write books on the side and travel the world and learn everything about everything and then write it all down to share with the world.

That was my plan.

In high school I started painting more, something I had always loved to do, and soon realized I had a talent colors and compotitions. Being a writer became a backseat option and instead I decided to go to college to pursue art history, fine art and museum studies with the hope of being a museum curator one day. Of course I would also become a famous painter on the side.

But, what about writing? I felt like a left my first love behind in exchange for a new plan, one that wasn’t as venerable, one that would have a regular paycheck.

This is getting long, but what I am trying to say it that I’ve always felt like I couldn’t do both. I CHOSE the other path; I chose the museum job. What right did I have, what right do I have to pursue that first love again? I was recently met up with a bunch of friends for a Full Moon Party and we talked about my fear that has been holding me back from really stepping into the role of writing. I explained to them, that my whole life I’ve had these two passions, and I don’t know how to have both.

“You’re a Gemini!” my astrological loving friend blurted out “You can do both!”

And I started laughing because I am a Gemini, and I have twin girls for crying out loud, OF COURSE I would have two passions in my life.

Why didn’t I think of that?

-Helen

Back to School.

My kids are back in school. This is the most time they have been away from me on the daily since before the twins were born. Back then Little Man was only 3 years old, I was pregnant with our two girls and Big Daddy Man (as we’ve been calling him recently) was in Afghanistan for the third time. At that time, I was running my own buisness, training interns and trying to secure a nanny to watch the girls once they arrived. Our girls were born in December 2019, which means when I was ready to go back to work in March of 2020 the world all but shut down. The five of us lived and worked in our small, but very cool downtown apartment during the following months. My business slowly faded into something I did part-time and then painfully decided to end completely.

Once the girls started crawling in the summer of 2020, we knew we needed a bigger place. So, we left our ever-so-cool downtown apartment and traded it for a 1970’s fixer upper outside of the city, and right on the beach. That was four years ago.

And now the babies are almost five, and Little Man is a solid 8.5 years old, and I am here, trying to figure out how to transition into this next phase of life. It’s hard. The first few weeks of school I almost cried every day when I dropped off my three little people.

My friend told me last night that I have been too hard on myself.

“It’s only September,” she said, “We’re all still transitioning, right now. Give yourself time.”

It’s not that I don’t have anything to do. We’re finishing up a total DIY renovation of our kitchen. It’s 95% done right now, and there is spackle drying as we speak, waiting for the final layer. I also have a client I’ve been working with once a month who just asked if we could move up the deadline on our project. I have things to do in these few hours a day that the babies are in preschool, but honestly…this is the first day I’ve actually spent my morning how I wanted to without the cloud of guilt hanging above me. I cleaned the studio, I talked with a friend, I made mysef a really good lunch, I read a book. I am sitting on the back deck with a mug of tea, writing. This is what I have been craving, what my soul needed just as much as it needs squishy hugs from those beautiful souls that I birthed. It needs both. The Ying and Yang of motherhood. The intense caring and also the freedom and time to sit and look out at the trees blowing in the wind and think a thought from beginning to end. The untangling of ideas into something that really refelcts who I am. And so that’s it. It is my goal to sit down like this and write everyday, either in blog form, or working on a new story, or sumerizing my book so I can finally send it out to publishers. I am terrifed. I am thrilled. I am moving forward, because that’s all we can do. And then I will pick up the girls and we will walk to the library, and make bread this afternoon and then go get brother. We have big plans this afternoon to play with clay, and go for a fall walk. Then I will make soup for my family, and we will sit and eat and break up fights and laugh and cuddle scraps, and finally get them into bed and kiss their foreheads. And I will lean into my partner’s body on the couch as we watch a show and whisper words about our day. That is all. It isn’t much, and yet it is all together more than anything I could have imagined. -Helen

The Farm

When I was a little kid, we moved around a lot. We lived in the Midwest, multiple places on the West Coast, we even lived in the desert for six months. Finally, when I was about to start middle school, my parents settled us into their forever home back in the Midwest. It was massive. A four thousand square foot old, falling down farmhouse nestled into twelve wooded acres and surrounded by rolling corn fields. Walking inside for the first time felt like we had entered another era. The house was built in 1901 by a local land shark who had nine children. It boasted five bedrooms upstairs, a library, a parlor, kitchen, dining room, living room, basement, a massive attic with the original wood flooring, and one small bathroom. It also hadn’t been updated since the 1970s. The kitchen was avocado green, the claw foot porcelain bathtub was hidden behind a rectangular plywood box painted harvest gold. Most of the plaster walls had four or more layers of wallpaper firmly glued down. Most of the multi-planed windows needed to be repaired or replaced. The woods had been used as the family’s person dumpster and were filled with decades of trash. There were multiple buildings outside as well. The main barn was huge, had once housed livestock and was complete with bales and bales of ancient hay. The rickety structure was painted red like most out buildings in the area and stood alongside a stone silo with a tin roof. There was also a Grainery, two separate workshops, a chicken coop, and a garage haphazardly attached to the house that had been built sometime in the last fifty years.

It was January when my parents moved me and my five siblings into this renovation wonderland. We spent the first couple of months stripping wallpaper, helping dad repipe the bathroom, and painting every surface in sight. Except for the wood trim in the main living areas downstairs. Those and the build in cabinets and the grand front staircase, were left with their original staining from the early 1900’s. The kitchen was all white expect for the sky-blue wallpaper mom put up. It had little white and yellow flowers on it. To this day, I still think family kitchens should be blue and white. That first spring we spent warm days cleaning up the woods of garbage and broken glass. We found old, glass Coca-Cola bottles from the 1960’s and rusty tins with the word Aspirin painted on the front. We were forever finding treasures in the attic, new trees to climb in the vast woods and unearthing flower beds under jungles of weeds that spread across the once groomed lawn.

It was the eight of us against decades of neglect and unuse.

-Helen