sunlight through my fingers

Yesterday was a shit show.  A shit show on a stale cracker.  

A day so messed up it can rarely occur so it's important to not let it go before wringing out the hidden drops of beauty inside it. 

I learned my grandma passed away.

My son's truck broke down.  Meaning my day watching Little J was going to run late and my plans to go to the gym (my gym) had to be canceled.



BC left a gate open and the dogs got out.

My daughter's car was hit (& run) in a parking lot.

I was talked into buying McD's for lunch by a 4-year-old who was then not in the mood for chicken and wanted me to make pizza.

Beach's back went out and she had to miss practice.

BC lost his wallet.  His jobs ran late so he missed getting to the bank again leaving me cashless. 

I couldn't get Fair Photos to the printers.

Ants in the laundry room.


I hung up on BC.

And then I was called into work.

Looking back I see the sunlight and hear Little J laughing, the water splashing, the dog jumping.  

I see Little J's other grandma, Nana, despite having her own long day smiling, standing at her back door as I handed her a sleepy Little J so I could get to work.  I see the gym moms and my coworkers laughing through it with me. 

When I rushed out the door to work my yard was picked up and raked, the house was clean, laundry done, a chocolate zucchini cake for dessert cooling on the counter, and dinner set to pop in the oven.     

And I only put Little J's swimsuit on her backward once.

Today doesn't look any less complicated. 

 I have Little J all day again.  I have photos to get to the printer, a kid to get to gym or the chiropractor or both, homeschooling to be done, a gym date for myself and the request that I work tonight to lessen the crazy of the first week of a new session.  

So much for getting days off in trade for working weekends.

I also have a mystery: I have a blog post Words Across The Water that has gone viral for a lack of a better term but I can't figure out how or even why.  

And there is one more thing I have today I didn't yesterday... last night as I was dreaming in the chaos of dreamlife. I saw my sister.  I want to remember this, I told myself so I reached out and grabbed her arm.  I held on to it for as long as I could.  

Hold on to all of it.  

The phone calls, the texts, the distractions, the craziness, the dogs, topless markers, lidless glue sticks, tiny socks, the sticky smell of pancakes, the sunlight, the splashing, the whole whirlwind of life- shit show on a stale cracker and all.

Grab ahold of it and don't let go. 


  

rivers of doubt

The heat comes for the river first.  It drinks from it twisting the air into moppy strings of green earth. The dogs don't care.  They ride the black path as if it is tundra. One is leashed the other is not.

Along the trail, the grass grows tall but tired.  Sunlight clips through in broken waves catching on the stillness of the river and bouncing off the orb weaver webs.

I can see the spiders.  I can hear my heavy footfalls. Feel the pull of the dog who knows I am slow.

Returning to the J Trail is always the same.  It's like crawling down a tunnel; light at both ends and dark in the middle.

The darkness is doubt.  It is fear.

The dog pulling me is a flashlight that cuts the darkness.  He removes the fear of the next corner, of the overgrowth, and of the drug dealer on bikes that roam boldly.  His brashness and the way I handle him as if he were a keg of dynamite about to blow scares the men passing us.

For this, I am not sorry. In fact, it's a little fuck you for scaring me away from here in the first place and you are welcome.

The dog does nothing for doubt though.  Doubt only fades with time.  Time on the trail chasing the heat, chasing the river.

the fine print of love

The speed in her response to my slip is brutal, "Except we don't have a dog named Kilo," she states.

No, she's right we don't.  At least we don't have one anymore. And we don't have a dog named Moses either. 

We have Ginger, aka Little Dog. A poorly timed foster dog turned into our forever dog.

And we have Juneau. 

The latter of which was who I was referring to when I accidentally said Kilo's name.  But he's not Kilo.  

For starters, Juneau's brain seems to be attached to his body.  Kilo was like a brakeless tractor-trailer on a greased slip and slide.  

Juneau ignores the boom of fireworks and the crack of gunfire.  Kilo was a hot mess if a plastics water bottle tipped over in the sink.  

The first time Kilo saw open water he swam and swam.  Juneau waded in carefully never letting his feet leave the sand. 

Kilo panicked in the canoe.  Juneau moved between the boats and the shore as if it was nothing.  Kilo was sleek and black dashed with a single brush of white war paint.  

Juneau is fire red with cresting waves of white foam.  Kilo a dirt reservation dog.  Juneau a mountain ranch hand. Kilo's expressions flat. Juneau's cartoonishly dynamic.

But one thing is the same they have the same desire to not be abandoned again.  Both dogs labeled as strays.  Both ending up at BFAS.  Kilo at Dog Town, Juneau (under the name of Groot) the Salt Lake Center. 

And both dogs became mine.

We don't have a dog named Kilo... anymore.  Kilo rests in a grave in the southeast corner of the garden.  Thinking he had been left behind he slipped the gate one morning blending with the dark and headed out to find me on the J Trail. Only, I wasn't there.

We found him down in the road. 

He died with me, lying in the back of my car. 

Juneau is not Kilo but that memory haunts my love for him.  I worry about his drive to be loved. About his neediness and just how far he will he go.  I worry about the road. This worry reminds me to not take the days together for granted. Dogs are born and grow old and die while we watch. Love is the most beautiful of liabilities. 

All dogs create purpose. Moses helped create a family and he grew old within it. Kilo rescued my heart from silence then slipped away. Ginger gentles the ground around us. And Juneau he has reopened the door.

stories

It's the stories.

The waves.

I can see them; thick and blue lapping at the sky like hungry dogs. Four teenage girls riding wave runners on an open body of water. I see the sun glinting off their colt-like legs.  I hear them laughing into the wind.

Then in an instant, in two misdirected circles they collide.

Beach's good friend India, a trained athlete, former gymnast, nationally ranked pole-vaulter, was able to jump from the wave runner right before impact.  She was the only one not injured in the crash.

She was able to think and to react. It might have saved her life.  It certainly saved her from injury.

The other three girls suffered injuries from minor sprains with a broken patella to life-altering.  The worst injury an open femur fracture and fractured tib-fib.

It's not our story.  It didn't happen to us but we felt it deep in our hearts. Grateful it wasn't worse.  Grateful for the incredible luck that the next boat over had a doctor and a nurse on it.

Am I sad that just as Beach is recovering from her back injury that she broke her thumb messing around with a friend?

Not at all. I am glad she was living her life (albeit it was still in a gym). I am glad it wasn't a gymnastics injury- there are enough of those. I am grateful for the amazing network of moms that supported us. Grateful for a lot of things <3

I LOVED the female ER doc who sat on the bed with Beach on finding out she has a metal allergy and said, "You will have to get a good job to pay for the good jewelry." Then added, "Don't rely on a husband."

I adore my daughter who said, "I feel really stupid now knowing it is broken- I should have cried." For the X-Ray tech who let her keep her phone so she could snap-chat the x-rays.  For the nurse who got us handwritten discharge papers so we could make it back to camp in time for Beam.

These are not normal kids and I have stopped hating that and I have stopped apologizing for it. I have stopped morning the loss of "normal".  It took me 9 years to get here but I am here.

Patient's main complaint: hungry.

no title

She appeared in the yard, short, tight shorts and an oversized t-shirt. I introduced her to our new Tiny House neighbors again and to their friend. Three young girls, 2 her own age, jumping on the trampoline.

Beach's outing in the yard was short.  She threw the frisbee to the dog a few times and then she was gone. Slipped back into the house.

We had just returned from a parent-athlete-coach meeting.  The stats of how great her season had been only made her grumpy.

Talk of her progress and recovery from her back injury, improvements, future skills, none of it what she wanted to hear let alone feel the weight of.

After dinner, we took the dogs for a walk.  We wandered down the J trail across the train tracks then detoured into the Wayman's far-field to watch the sky put the day to bed.

Fifteen, on the edge of sixteen.  Walking with her parents through the tall grass.

And again on return to the house, we settled in the yard.  She played with the dogs in the collecting darkness.  Jennifer, our Tiny House neighbor throwing a blanket over the trampoline seemed surprised to see Beach.

She invited her to sleep in the yard with the other girls.  Beach politely declined explaining she had an early morning practice the next day.

She is a ghost both at home and in the gym.

The mom in me wants to rescue her.  

But I know, I can't rescue her from herself.  I can't stop her from being her.  

All I can do is stand behind her as she makes her way.

welcome to...

I stood in the night with the building tight and tall rising silently up behind me like a giant ship sleeping in its moors.  I watched the crowd of parents about to be its long term passengers as they tried to comprehend the importance of the meeting going on before them. Life jackets not yet required.  Welcome to Compulsory Team Gymnastics.

I wondered exactly what they were hearing sitting on folding chairs in a parking lot the traffic of 33rd buzzing by.  What information did they think they needed to hear and what did they consider unnecessary.

Each of them clutched their packet of papers and a placement letter.  They leaned forward in their seats looking into an unknown future somewhere out there.

Some had dreamed of this moment. Others were totally caught off guard. A few missed the whole point. All of them stared at the numbers.

Welcome to the world of competitive gymnastics. 

The first thing you will notice (after the cost) is the pronouns. Let me clear this up for you.  The gym owner will say your placement letter, your schedule, your team account.  This is not a mistake although we often joke that it is.

Yes, it may sound more correct to say your daughter's or your athlete's, especially when talking about leos but that would be misleading.  Gymnastics is a sport that creates its own gravity.  Once you accept that your child is a gymnast the course of your life and your family's life will be altered.  You and your whole world will be on that giant cruise ship.

Dinner time will change.  Vacations will change.  Appointments, shopping lists, clothing purchases, birthdays, holidays, weekends, schooling, it all changes.  Maybe not all at once but it will happen.

And yes, it's true your child will get in trouble for being late even though she is 7 years old... Her coaches expect her to be on time because they respect her enough as an athlete to value and protect her workout time.

I look back at the life we had in compulsory (Lv 2-5).  An every other day sort of thing.  Meet season was short enough.  It seemed big.  We lived around gymnastics like it was the sun on holiday.  Our days starting and ending with it.

Then came the Optionals (Lv 6-10) with its 5+ days a week with travel meets.  And Regional Meets.  And because Beach is awesome! Westerns Championships.  So more like the sun on a hiking trip through death valley. Hot, so damn hot, and always there!

Practices. Upgrades. Injuries. Grips. Rips. Leos. Tape. The right flavor of Gatorade. Camps. Showcases. Backpacks. Beam bites. TSA lines. New skills. New bruises. Extra-extra practices. Routines. Water bottles. Heel cups. Clinics. Conditioning. Ice. ER visits. College coaches. Judges. Start values. Phone calls. Meet hair. Teammates. Chalk. Bad days. Good days. All days.

Within this world is you, your family, a few good friends, and your child- the child that picked this path for all of you.

Dear Parents: Our job is to stand behind our daughters- not in front of them. To cheer for them, to feed them good food and lots of love.  To offer shelter in the form of "not gymnastics" things.  Walk with them.  Listen to them.  Give them a second thing- art, music, science, theater, etc. Read to them- even when they are big and "too old".  And to the mothers, put on our swimsuits and swim with them without rolling our eyes at our own bodies as we pass our reflection in the mirror.

Your daughter has chosen to work. To work hard while others play.  I'm not supposed to say they are sacrificing but rather say they are exchanging or... I don't remember the other word... but this isn't the easy way.  Respect her as an athlete.  Love her as a child. Then look out at all those other girls out there, our gym, their gym, that gym, and do the same thing to them; respect them, love them.

And whether or not they "make it", the pay off for just being here is huge. The life lessons, the life skills, that thing that makes people turn their head to watch Beach as walks through the mall, that is the gold in this sport: Confidence, power, poise, strength.

Your other job as a parent is to keep your family culture going. At times it's like threading May Pole in a hurricane but it is possible.

Beach is our youngest so I can't pretend I know how it is to balance the needs of younger siblings. What I know is the number of times I have yelled at her older brother, "Stop wrestling with her she is expensive!" The number of times I tell my older kids "I'm sorry I can't something-something Beach something-something gymnastics".

When you have a competitive athlete time is the most precious luxury around.  Protect your family time- quality over quantity.  Your extended family will not understand, your neighbors will not believe you. Teachers will scoff and other parents will judge you. None of that matters.

The balance is hard. On one hand, it is just another youth sport but on the other, it is the proving ground for your child's future.

As a parent who has been here a long time, I say welcome to the cult of gymnasts.  Welcome to the hardest but most rewarding and amazing adventure you (and your family) will ever go on.

Welcome the family.