Alba wrote me this poem last night and left it on my pillow. She has this habit of getting out of bed one hundred times to tell me her love tank is empty and she needs a mama hug to fill her up.

She’s got the biggest, most beautiful eyes, and has one wiggly tooth jutting out of her mouth, so it’s hard for me to say no when she does this.

However, if I don’t get a bit of alone time at night, I become cranky, so I told her she can’t get out of bed, but she can write to me.

I haven’t been writing much lately (at least not for public consumption), but I was honored to get a glimpse into how poetically she thinks about the world, and me. I think this may be what I needed to begin writing again.

Three seats on an airplane

three weeks from now

will be filled by three peas in a pod

who will travel faraway together

laugh together

eat, sleep, and explore together

get on each other’s nerves altogether

but it won’t last forever

because we’re birds of a feather

we always come back together

I’ve been thinking about the myriad ways we all show up every day at work or as a parent, for our community, as a caregiver or friend, and what the road looks like for us to simply arrive when we have committed to something or someone.

There are numerous obstacles to overcome and it can sometimes feel like an entire day has passed before we have even left the house.

I have been focused on and inspired by how we’re all pretty badass when we continue to show up. Today’s perspective is as a parent, on a Monday morning, and the three hours I am awake before anyone sees me. 

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I’ve been through a marathon
Not that I’ve had time to fit in an actual run
But in my body, it feels like I did

My bedmate has a bug bite on her bum
She wakes me before 6 a.m. to tell me so
“It’s too itchy,” she says, “Can you please get the cream?”

I suddenly find myself trapped inside the If You Give a Mouse a Cookie book, where, now that I am “awake”, the requests flood in

She’d like cereal poured in a bowl, a show, water with two ice cubes, her blankie and three favorite penguin stuffies
Who can say no to eyes like that?

Luckily I’m back in bed just in time for her brother to wake up

He can’t find his shoes or water bottle
“Who could ever like a Monday?” he grumbles
I agree
His watch didn’t charge last night
He tells me how much he loves me before he slips out the door

The cat is begging for breakfast, the little one wants a packed home lunch instead of hot lunch because she doesn’t want to wait in the hot lunch line and also does not want to get dressed today. Sometime after brushing her hair through shrill screams and before we head to the bus stop, I remember to get dressed for work.

It’s 8 a.m. now. We’re outside and she wants to check on each plant in the yard before we head to the bus stop. She notices how tall each one grew and wonders if the squirrels ate the seeds from the planter barrel, or if her worms survived the night in the bug cage (they didn’t). We get to the bus stop just in time for her to hop on and wave to me from her seat.

My neighbor stops to chat while I calculate how long I can talk in order to make it to my office for 9 a.m. She tells me I look really pretty today as I speed walk to my car.

On my commute I try to land into Monday. The weekend of soccer games, volunteering, playdates, birthday parties and sleepovers is suddenly gone.

I’m now walking to my office. Did I brush my hair? What am I wearing? Is there still dirt under my nails?

It feels like I was sucked up into a tornado and then spit out at my desk.

And now the official, paid part begins. The part of me that needs focus so all the other parts don’t fall apart. I take a deep breath and begin to do my best.

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When you show up this way, your imperfectly perfect little self, you win. You don’t let perfectionism get in the way. You are there and it is enough. You are enough. 

It’s a practice, like anything else, to show up imperfectly or tired or grumpy. I practice this as I write in this moment, knowing my words aren’t perfect, but they are still worth sharing with all of you.

I am from a big red house full of brothers and sisters
from Barbies and board games and trips to the chicken coop to gather eggs
I am from laundry dried in the sun and peanut butter toast
from “you are so polite”
I am from dessert after dinner and more orange juice
and from piles of wrapping paper on Christmas
from climbing trees in the woods and living room hockey with my brothers
I am from shy and kind
from my bedroom writing desk and hanging chair
and from 5ks and marathons
I am from Rafe and Alba and Mia
I am from making a difference in the world

Tell me…where are you from?

Alba’s elementary school chooses to call her Halloween parade an Autumn Walk. Her teacher says it is Noche de Brujas.

I call it the first Halloween ever when I won’t go trick or treating with my kids.

I can’t quite stand the thought of doling out candy in my doorway, each little face reminding me of what I’m missing. I suspect you won’t find me at home tonight.

There were other opportunities to dress them up last week and this morning, and yet I still feel gloomy.

There’s magic in the dark streets this time of year: leaves crunching under hurried feet, flashlights leading the way toward the next house, my neighbor who revs his chainsaw to send the children screaming, the sound of disappointment when that one house looked as though there was someone at home, but there wasn’t, and precious seconds were wasted.

I want it all. The ups and downs. The thrill of the candy. The 8 p.m. meltdowns when it’s over. The sibling sorting and trading on the floor back at home. The impossibility of putting them to bed after all the excitement. The eating of all the Reese’s while they are snoozing.

I’m told I have sad eyes. They’ll ask me what I’m thinking, confused, impatient with my lack of response. I often don’t know until I write it down. What I’m realizing now as I’m typing is the beauty in allowing myself to be sad when I feel it.

Because it’s Halloween, I’ll call it the simple trick I learned over the past year. You don’t trick yourself into feeling positive by telling yourself, “It’s not that bad, cheer up”. You treat yourself to an outrageous heaping spoonful of kindness, reminding yourself you are just human and feeling is part of the experience.  

Maybe it will get easier to miss these holidays, or maybe it won’t. That’s not for me to decide. I won’t be writing my future any longer. I learned my lesson from past mistakes. I used to paint beautiful futures for myself, thinking I could will them into existence, ignoring the current reality.

Now I choose to sit deeply in the present. I’m alert and waiting for what’s next for me.

I guess this was a long-winded way of saying, have a Halloween, whether it’s happy or not.

For Rafe and Alba, for being my magic every day.

I knocked on the fairy’s house and she said she wasn’t home.
But I heard her voice clearly echoing off the walls.

“You can’t fool me,” I said. “And besides, I’ve only come back to play.”

“You don’t remember how to play,” the fairy said.

I took a step back
wondering what her words meant.
Wasn’t I just here yesterday?

I was building a path of stepping stones that led up to her door
and every time I wobbled and my foot hit the ground
I’d start over again from the beginning
until I made it without falling.

I was just digging in the dirt
looking for shiny treasures
to present to my fairy.

She always enjoyed the treasures.
I watched her as she sprinkled them in her tea
or displayed them in her home
and always asked for more.

It filled up my afternoons
treasure hunting for the fairy.

I was controlling the weather with my fairy spells she taught me
spinning madly in circles
the sky darkening.
I summoned thunder and rain.

When I’d recovered from her words I took another step forward
closer than before.
Maybe she hadn’t heard me the first time.

“Fairy, are you ready to play?” I asked.
“You’re late,” she said.

“Late for what?” I wondered.

“While you were out there growing and changing, and feeling and falling down, I was here waiting for your treasures. Your stories,” she said.

All of a sudden I felt confused
nostalgic for something I couldn’t put my finger on
and began rambling to the fairy
telling her a story I’d once heard
about a baobab
that simply would not shut up
and so
he was ripped out of the ground
put back in upside down
with its roots in the air
head under the dirt so no one would hear him.

When I looked up I saw the fairy’s face change.
She laughed a bit at first, but then began to cry.

“Your stories,” she said, “they used to be full of joy, wonder, and delight.”

“Okay,” I said, “I can tell you about the time a giant rainstorm flooded my backyard and the kids swam around…”

“Wait!” said the fairy, interrupting my story.

I assumed I’d disappointed her yet again and began to feel I’d never see her smile.

“You have kids?” she asked.
“I do,” I said.
“And, are they like you?”

“Very much so,” I said. “They laugh all the time. They bring me art projects and treasures from school. They tell me stories. They make my world brighter.”

“Oh,” said the fairy. “That’s what I miss the most.” She paused, looked at me and asked me about their names.

“Rafe and Alba,” I replied.

“Would you send them over to my house sometime?” she asked. “The place is not what it used to be, my treasures have lost their shine, but I’d like to share some new spells I came up with.”

“Well, sure,” I said.

All at once she turned around and began to fly back to her home and that’s when I saw it, her smile. Instantly I remembered everything from years ago and I knew in that moment she had forgiven me.

I was cleaning out the memory card on my Canon and came across a photo my daughter took just a few days ago. In that moment when I saw myself I realized how rare it is to see a picture of just me.

I’m not doing anything special, but the mere fact that she wanted to capture me in the moment made me feel seen.

It’s just me—raw and tired—at the end of the day. I’m putting my house back together. It is my nightly ritual.

It is the part of the day when I’m most exhausted and ready to give up. The end is in sight. We’ve done all of our adventuring and there’s just baths, books, pjs and teeth standing in the way of me and my couch. And silence.

I see myself and I realize I have a way of giving off calm even when I am completely overwhelmed. The timestamp on the photo is 6 p.m.—the exact time each night when my brain is exploding. I haven’t had a single moment to myself or even one unique thought.

This mundane picture made me realize how much everyone just wants to be truly seen.

But to be seen would take vulnerability and trusting others with our deepest selves.

I often wonder when I’ll be able to fully trust again and yet I know the answer to almost all of my questions is right in front of me.

The answer I’m finding lately is usually just time.

I loathe and find comfort in this answer because as impatient as I am, I also know how time has already healed me and will continue to do so.

The perfect home
is one that simply isn’t perfect at all
because it knows
perfection is the enemy

The perfect home
asks you, and only you, to like it
in opposition to
your ego
just begging for likes

It is steadfast in its ability to provide calm

A home
holds space for you to create
even when
there’s dishes to be done
and a coffee stain on the floor

You can and you must
make space for your mind to wander
away from the ordinary
past the routine of shoulds
into the deep where clarity lies

On your worst days it holds you
Yet, on others, it opens up its doors for love
Making space for your best and worst selves to just be

Mine gently pushes me outside
to wander through purple and yellow
when I’m blue

It welcomes me back in
when I’ve remembered to breathe in the breezes

My house
above all
is finally mine

I chose it whole heartedly
by signing on the dotted line

She’s imperfect, but beautiful
like someone else I know

I found out today
that Alba hums a little song
every time she misses me
in school, on car rides, seconds before shutting her eyes

It’s just a few notes
strung together perfectly
inciting a memory
a reminder of me

What if I’m meant
to follow her lead
instead of my tired role
of a person
doing an impression
of someone who knows it all

She’s figured out how
to find me
without words at all

I used to hum when I was little, too
to wish away sadness
But, wishes are for all sorts of things

Like how we use her favorite flower
the dandelion
before morning school bus rides
to dream
dozens of them all together
in unison
spread into the wind

She says she wants to be
a writer like me
We’ll live side-by-side forever
writing stories
She draws the pictures
while I find the words
Two dreams
of two girls
mingled as one
I can’t think of anything better

So, that’s it
the reminder I needed
to know that I
carry her
carry him
They don’t need to see me
to feel me
gently guiding them
until we are
all laughing together again