The Sound

The sound of motorcycles revving in the driveway meant that Uncle Dan was home, and with him came the entourage. One by one they pulled in, taking their place in Dan's court. He'd sit in his King Louie throne in the living room, and maybe his pet owl would be perched above him, sleeping in the day, unperturbed by Uncle Dan's loud and boisterous storytelling, his laugh that sounded like a pack of wild hyenas yipping all at once. Or was that just the pack of wolves he kept in the backyard? 

He'd tell stories from the movie set, and the motorcycle boys would hang on his every word, endure his sharp criticisms and sarcasm, and the nicknames he'd pegged them with: Bullet, Tall Boy, Rags. To stay in his orbit was to defer to him, and no matter how tough and intimidating they may have appeared, they did defer. Not because he threatened. He never had to prove his brute strength. He only had to cast a "look" your way.
It wasn't that they, or I, were afraid of him. We only feared not being in his orbit. To try to understand this is to try to understand the universe. He was the sun around which the rest of us orbited. And he was the black hole, sucking us all in, until we'd disappeared to ourselves.
He was the sun.
He was the king.
He was our savior and he was our destruction.

#TinyStories

The Scorched Earth

This is the only childhood photo I have of my mother and I together. Like this photo, our relationship is faded, tattered at the edges. Things happened in our family, horrible things, that not only burned the bridge between us, but blew it into a million sharp fragments. We carry the shrapnel beneath our skin.

My mother and I have been estranged ten years. Recently, because of an illness in the family, we spoke. It was not a healing exactly, but it was something. I turned to my friend Laura Davis, who has written books on healing families, and asked her how I could even begin to heal with my mother.

“Start where you are,” she said.

But where are we?

We are zombies, walking wounded over the scorched earth, searching for signs of hope

behind the black-grey clouds of anger, pain, confusion.

Another year comes and goes and it’s Mother’s Day again, and I am bombarded with warm, fuzzy images on TV, in ads, in magazines, reminding me of what we are not.

There is no Hallmark card that fits us.

There is no card that says this;

You are my mother

You brought me – your choice at fifteen- into this world.

My DNA and history, my roots come through you

Your toxic relationships with men damaged me and yet in the aftermath,

I saw you stand alone, and understood how a woman could be fierce and strong

My scars, my tears, my nightmares, my courage, my fire, I owe to you

You created in me a warrior woman

For that I thank you

I’d like to list the things I love about you

But I’ve never really known you

I’ve seen glimpses– in the way you love animals and children, in your spirit of adventure, in the moments when you are soft and kind and vulnerable

Those glimpses are what gives me hope

It’s taken me a long time to forgive you

for the times you weren’t there to protect me

But I’m grateful for the times you were

I don’t know how to heal this sad and broken family

I only know it’s going to take something much bigger than me to map that road

I’ve spent years making peace with the bad memories,

while trying to hold on to the good

while praying we can get it right before we both leave this planet

You are my mother.

I wish you love. I wish you joy. I wish you hope.

I wish it were different.

I wish.

Love is a Risky Business

Love is a risky business. If you’ve ever opened your heart to another person, chances are you’ve been hurt. I know this, and yet I knowingly take the risk again and again. I’ve had friends and family chide me for it- saying I’m reckless, saying I have to protect myself. But I don’t want to protect myself from love.

And now, once again, I’m nursing a broken heart.

This is how it happened.

In the Fall of 2009, Troy and I had just gotten back from celebrating our 20^th anniversary in Jamaica, our daughter Cristen was beginning her promising career in the music industry, our son Taylor was thriving in college, and Evan was busy learning the countries of the world. Everything in our lives was going as planned. We were peaceful and happy, our proverbial ducks lined up in a row. Ha.

One night that September, with tears in his eyes, Taylor said he had something to tell me. I already knew. His girlfriend was pregnant. It’s one thing to have your college-attending son deliver this news, quite another when the girl is a Japanese exchange student, who speaks little English, is here on a temporary visa and, by the way, had just lost her student housing and had nowhere to go.

So we took the risk…we opened our hearts, our lives and our home to a little pregnant, scared, crying, puking Japanese girl who hid from us in Taylor’s room all day.

On Valentine’s Day of 2010, with only three weeks to plan, I threw a wedding for my son and new daughter-in-law Aya. Over time, I built a bond with Aya. I took her to doctor’s appointments and talked her through her fears of birth and parenting. I introduced her to comfort foods- she loved my homemade macaroni and cheese and especially my brownies. She made us sushi and udon noodles and Kim-chi dinners. We introduced her to Thanksgiving and American Christmas traditions, which she happily embraced. We did art projects together. We lived peacefully together and awaited the baby’s birth.

Ayumu Cameron Dexter came into our lives on June 1^st, 2010, changing our world forever. Once again, I was rocking a baby to sleep on my shoulder, carrying a little one around the house on my hip. Ayumu called me ‘Baba”. Aya and Taylor nicknamed him Baba-boy, because he was so attached to me.

In the mornings I would hear his little footsteps running across the hardwood floor, my bedroom door would fly open and he’d pounce. He loved to jump on my bed, count to three, then dive bomb on top of me. In the kitchen, he would push me away from my cooking and stand on his tippy-toes, arms stretched upward to be held. I’d pick him up and his whole body would relax into me, his head nestled into the curve of my neck. I would carry him around on my hip as I did chores or had phone meetings. He watched as I sat with my friends around the dining table, telling stories and laughing, and then would climb up on a dining room chair and tell loud animated stories in jibberish, emulating us,  cracking himself up. God I loved that.

He and Evan would chase each other through the house squealing with laughter. He loved to climb into bed with Evan as I read him bedtime stories. He loved to use our cats and dog as pillows. It would make me smile to see him asleep on Taylor’s chest, or playing guitar with Ojisan (Troy).

I loved when Aya would sit on my bed with me and talk until late in the night. I loved that every time she bought Ayumu a new outfit she would run into my room to show me. I loved doing arts and crafts with her, and taking her for knitting lessons and jewelry making lessons.

This house was full with chaos and music and two women cooking in the kitchen and dogs and cats and lots and lots of love. I was so happy. I thought we all were happy.

And then, just before Thanksgiving, Aya told me her Grandmother was having heart surgery, and that she’d be taking Ayumu to Japan to visit. I was fine with that, until she told me they’d be gone three months and would miss Christmas with us. But I understood her reasons, and had to adjust.

In January, Aya wrote to tell me she didn’t want to come back. She was happy being home with her mom and Grandmother - happy to be back where everyone spoke her language, where she could fully express herself. Her mother and grandmother had fallen in love with Ayumu. She had health insurance there, and public transportation. Free schooling, free childcare. She felt free there. Even though she loved Taylor and all of us, the pull of home was stronger.

Taylor flew to Japan for three weeks in February to see his son and try to work things out with Aya. The three of them had pre-purchased tickets to return on Feb 9^th.

I had been counting the days until February 9^th, and so had Evan. He ran into my room one Saturday morning, “Mommy! Only six more days until Ayumu comes home!”

That’s when I had to break the news to him, the news I had been carrying heavy in my heart. Aya and Ayumu were not coming home.

She says she needs more time. She says she might be back this year. Maybe she’ll come back to Taylor and they’ll get their own place, maybe she’ll just visit. She doesn’t know.

Taylor is absolutely committed to raising his son, and told her so. But what if she never comes back? How do you arrange joint custody across the world when a round trip flight is $1500 per person?

Every morning I get up and pray. I have never prayed harder for anything in my life. I am calling on every angel I have, every ancestor in spirit. I have always believed that love could heal anything, yet Aya was surrounded with love in this home, and it wasn’t enough. How can that be? Is my theory about love wrong?

I worry about my son’s heart- so heavy a burden for someone so young. I worry about my husband who carries this grief so heavily. And my daughter Cristen, and Evan and all of my friends who took Ayumu and Aya into their families as their own. We are all hurting.

Ayumu’s high chair sits empty in my dining room. His toys are piled in the corner of the living room gathering dust. I can’t bear to look at them. My cupboards are bursting with Japanese foods and recipe books. Every time I open them I feel a kick in my gut. Troy and I have been living with this - this dull throbbing ache that has become part of our existence.

We talk about it late into the night. We might as well talk, since neither of us can sleep. Did we do the right thing opening our homes and hearts in that Fall of 2009?  We always knew this was a possibility. Were we foolish to risk getting hurt this way?

We came to the conclusion that even though we will never heal from this, we wouldn’t have done it any other way. Even though the grief is unbearable, I couldn’t imagine a world without Ayumu. No matter what happens, I am grateful to have had these two years raising him, and loving him.

I am hurt by Aya’s decision to stay, but I remember how hard it was to be twenty-two, to be young and lost. I know she is afraid and confused by her feelings. We all made impulsive decisions at that age. All I can do is to love her, and embrace her, and hope that the pull of her American family brings her back.

My precious angel

And I have to believe in my heart that somehow, some way, love will bring Ayumu back to us. The storm winds have been blowing hard in my life the past couple years, and yet, some beautiful blessings have come with them. I must learn to bend like the willow. If I become bitter and rigid, I will break. I want to believe in love, no matter how many times it hurts me. I want to let the cold harsh winds blow through me, bend me, change me. I want to believe.

Happier times:

Oji gives Ayumu a guitar lesson

Troy-san walks Aya down the aisle

Aya's birthday

Father-son tradition

Evan and "his baby", as he calls him.

Cristen and her nephew, sitting in the audience before one of Taylor's concerts

Stich makes a good pillow

Family time doing Christmas crafts

Christmas dinner 2010

Ayumu in his usual place, right on my hip.

Taylor and Aya's first dance.

My heart will not heal until we are together as a family again.

Being True to You

Ophelia's art poster: http://www.zazzle.com/to_thine_own_self_be_true_poster-228306749335934814

Yesterday I watched an online discussion between Martha Beck and Oprah, following Oprah’s life class entitled “The Truth Will Set You Free”. This of course was of interest to me as my life’s work is centered in this issue.

Martha Beck had a spiritual experience while undergoing a surgery, and it changed they way she lived. She had been touched by a divine love, and the only way she could come close to experiencing that feeling again was to live in absolute truth. The alternative became too painful. She could no longer say yes when she meant no, or do work she didn’t believe in, or be in a relationship based on false selves.

This was the part of the conversation that riveted me. She said that if you are in a relationship in which you can not truly be yourself- meaning you can’t say what you really think or feel for fear of the other person rejecting you- then you are presenting a “false self” to the relationship, and therefore it is a “false relationship”. I could instantly flash on several relationships in my life past and present that fit that bill. And it made me wonder…If I’m not being myself so I won’t lose the relationship, but it’s a false relationship, then what am I really losing?

I can recall countless work or family functions I’ve attended where everyone forces a smile while simmering with resentment underneath. Or times I’ve said yes when I really meant no. And this is what I think shame really is. It’s when your actions are not in alignment with your heart. Shame is born in the moment that you betray yourself.

And yet most of us live this way.

So why do we do this? Why would we ever live a life that is not true? Why do we betray ourselves? Why do we say one thing and do another?

What do we gain by living this way? And more importantly, what do we lose?

The Great Escape....(hopefully)

The jackhammers have stilled, the sewage hauled away, court date with the awful neighbors - behind us. Tearful goodbyes were said this morning with the Japanese mother-in-law, Evan started summer camp, and I was looking forward to finally restoring a normal routine. Today I would be ALONE in my house for the first time since I could remember. I was giddy! My plan was to write from sunup to sundown, to catch up on all the time that had been sucked away.

Tomorrow we leave for Northern California for a much needed getaway. Let me rephrase that…desperately needed. My husband has a gig withWilson Phillips in Marin, so we get a beautiful all-expenses-paid hotel room for a couple days, then we head up with friends for Yosemite. Ah, nature, the great restorer of the spirit. I was counting the seconds until I could exhale …Goodbye stress, hello blissful 500 thread-count sheets, majestic waterfalls, and magnificent sunsets.

But wait! The Universe steps back in….not so fast, missy! Last night I woke to the sound of my terrier panting heavily, seemingly unable to move. She was lethargic and excessively thirsty. Needless to say, I kept vigil and got NO SLEEP. Got up this morning. She’s worse.

As I walk my dog into the vet’s office today, I can’t believe my eyes (but I believe my nose…) There are men with jackhammers and shovels right outside the front door – get this….putting in a new sewer. Oh my god - really???? REALLY? Is there NO ESCAPE?

So I’m writing this blog on my laptop in the vets waiting room, with the sound of jackhammers and the smell of sewage because, hey, that’s my life! As I wait for test results, my dream of Yosemite fades slowly from view….

Even though I’ve been griping a lot lately about the dramarama going on, believe me, in spite of it all, I am deeply grateful for my life. Not for a second do I take any of my blessings for granted. I love my work, I have amazing friends, an incredible husband and my kids are healthy and thriving…what else really matters? But oh how I dream of “boring”. “Humdrum” sounds enticing. Hell, I’d even settle for a rut. 

I recognize this intense chapter as a growth period. How could I ever find out who I am and where I stand if I wasn’t pushed to my human limits? If I had a cushy, easy going existence (oh god that sounds so dreamy...) I would never have to be strong or brave and I certainly wouldn’t have much to write about. People tell me “God never gives you more than you can handle”. Yeah, I’ve definitely heard that one before. I just wish “God” had a little less confidence in me.

Whatever comes, whether more doggie disasters or septic disasters, my husband and I will hold hands and walk through it. But honestly, if I don’t recharge my battery right now, it could get ugly. So I am declaring this and you are all my witnesses : My dog is going to be okay, and come hell or high water, I AM GOING ON THIS FREEKIN TRIP!

Hold on 500-thread-count sheets, I’m on my way!

Flying South

When I was a little girl, one of my favorite moments of Fall was the sound of geese migrating. In the 1970s, the San Fernando Valley was clouded over with smog every day, (this was before EPA standards), so we were lucky to see so much as a squirrel. I could never see those geese, but I heard them, honking away incessantly as they flew. I imagined that, in goose language, they were giddily chatting about their vacation, and all the things they would do once they reached their destination. I wanted to go with them. They were getting the hell out, and I knew that one day I would, too.

I was really cranky this weekend, and I thought about those geese. Oh lord did I want to jump on a plane and head South, anywhere.

For the past four months my life has been a whirlwind of planning and hosting. If it’s possible for a person to have too much fun, I think that may have happened to me.

Imagine one of those montage scenes in an old movie, where the calendar pages start blowing past:

February - Twenty days to plan and host a wedding for my son, one week to throw a bridal shower. March - brother and family come to visit, parties, Disneyland, beach, Hollywood, T.V. show tapings… April – gigs galore, sequined gowns, disco and torch songs, old friends visiting from out of town. May - Another brother family visit, birthday parties, concerts, Disneyland, beach and Hollywood all over again, my two best friends birthdays, then yesterday - a baby shower for my daughter in law. ..

And its not over… June promises another whirlwind, with the baby about to be born, my daughter’s birthday, and then Aya’s mother coming in from Japan to stay with us for a few weeks. Every one of these events is a blessing that I’m so grateful for.

BUT….

Yesterday I hit a wall. Hard. I was hosting a baby shower in two hours, but I could hardly push myself through the morning, making tea sandwiches like a zombie on auto pilot, my four-year old running around in his underwear, dust bunnies threatening to overtake the house, and of course, the septic system leaking into the yard, which it always does on special occasions.

It was go-time, but I wasn’t going. Soon my house would be filled with people and fun, but I found myself craving solitude. I wanted to curl up into fetal position and throw the covers over my head. Because through all this fun, fun, fun, go, go, go I am getting up early every morning, writing six hours a day, trying to finish my book. It is a memoir of my childhood, and believe me, it is not an easy one to write. All morning, I’m immersed in some tragic event of 1978, reliving the moment. Then at noon I shut down my laptop and bring my little one home from preschool. He’s bouncing all over the place “Let’s play Candyland Mommy”, but my head is still swirling with the violent events of the past, and at times it feels like I will implode.

The absurd dichotomy between what I’m writing about each day, things like seeing my brother covered in blood after he was shot in the head…and what I’m living now…party, party, party, fun, fun, fun….all of a sudden became too much to handle. You hear people speak of the writer’s life with such romantic notions, but for me, it’s like vomiting. It feels awful, but you gotta do it, and actually you feel a lot better afterward. So I’m "vomiting" every morning, running around party-party-party planning every afternoon, waking in the middle of the night with anxiety, stomachaches, and nosebleeds. Yesterday morning I just shut down. My eyes glazed over, I was stuck on pause.

My best friend Erin walked in, and in her no-bullshit manner said, “What’s up with you? You look like a Stepford Wife whose plug was just pulled.” Then rolled up her sleeves and started working the kitchen.

My husband took one look at me and said Uh-oh, (after twenty-two years, he knows my every facial expression) Give me a list, and I’ll get it done. God I love him. My friends, my kids…everyone started pitching in to make it happen.

Which brings me back to those geese. On their long journeys one takes the front position, the others fall behind in V formation creating an uplift in wind current for the rest. When the lead goose tires, another moves into position. By flying together, they can move 70% faster than on their own. This is how it is with friends. Many times I have taken the front position, but not now. I am being carried. Thank God for them. Thank God.

Maybe what I was pining for, listening to the geese all those years ago, was that feeling of being carried, of being connected to something bigger than myself. Maybe all that honking away wasn’t, and isn’t, idle chatter about a vacation, but constant assuring of one another – I’ve got you, and I will never let you fall.

So once again, my beautiful family and friends filled up the well that had run dry, making me feel human again, filling my day with laughter and gratitude. The baby shower lasted five hours, and even that seemed too short.

Last night, I sat at the dinner table with my husband, my three children, and my daughter-in-law who is carrying my soon to be born grandson. Over dinner we told stories and laughed, oh wow, did we laugh a lot last night. It was just one of those moments of absolute perfection, and as I stopped to soak it all in, I realized – I don’t want to fly South. I am right where I want to be.

A Prayer for my Father

As I read the message from my youngest brother, my stomach lurched. “Dad’s in the hospital”. That feeling of dread set in fast, and just as quickly I remind myself -don’t go there till you get there. It could be anything, it could be nothing. They suspect he's had a series of small strokes. He couldn’t remember how to punch his time card at work after 14 years of doing it every day. He also couldn’t perform simple feats that the doctors asked of him, like walking heel to toe. They admitted him to run further tests, cat scans, bloodwork. It will be hours, maybe days before we know anything. So I sit here by the phone in California, my father in a hospital in Texas.

I don’t want to invest in worry, but it feels like I just got punched in the chest. I’ve only had my dad in my life for six and a half years. Is this it? There is so much still unresolved between us, so much I still don’t know about his life, his past. Will I ever have the chance to build the kind of relationship with him that I always hoped for? I think of the thirty-nine years I lived never knowing if he was even alive. I think of the time that slipped by, the many opportunities missed. I think of all the things I still want to say. The conversations we still haven’t had.

But none of this thinking does me any good. What I really want is to pray, and to believe that prayer is real, and maybe it lands upon some sympathetic ear somewhere in the Universe. But I simply don’t know how. I know this sounds terrible coming from a preacher’s daughter. What can I say? I have doubts. I can recite words I was taught as a child, but it never feels right to me. So I write and I hope that this suffices, that my words rise above the ether somehow, or maybe settle in the hearts and minds of those who read it, creating a collective network of good will. I don’t know. All I can do is put it out there and hope.

So this is my prayer for my father. May he be well and whole. May his good heart win out over the abuse he has inflicted upon himself in the past. May his tears and his struggles be behind him. May his golden years be peaceful, surrounding him with family and love. May he even be strong enough to return to preaching at his beloved church, in spite of his self-doubts. May he be well enough to pick up his brushes and once again paint those dramatic passionate scenes of stormy seas and blazing sunsets that are his trademark. May he stick around long enough for us all to have the chance to get it right.

God, if you’re out there and you just happen to stumble upon my blog, I ask you this. If Dad comes knocking on your door anytime soon, can you just toss him back to us like a small fish not ready to be caught yet? Can you let him fatten up on the richness of life that still awaits him here, before you reel him back in?

I would be forever grateful.

The Gift of the Unexpected Family

Me and my brother Ted, or "little Butch" or "Straight-Ted"

I am counting the moments until tomorrow, when my family will be here from Texas to spend the week with us – the family I didn’t even know I had until seven years ago.

The cousins will play together, friends will gather for potluck dinners, and of course we will do the full Disneyland day. It will be a typical family experience for the most un-typical family you’ve ever met. We’ve come together from different parts of the country and different cultural backgrounds and lifestyles, but what we share is love, a dad, DNA and a very odd history.

I always knew I had a father out there somewhere, but I didn’t know who he was, what he looked like, or if he was even alive. Through some geneology work I was doing in 2003, I found him. It wasn’t what I had set out to do, in fact I feared it, but never-the-less, he is now in my life, thankfully. I finally learned the full truth of who I am, where I came from and how I came to be in this world.

I love my dad. Believe it or not, in seven years we have developed a relationship much like any other parent-child relationship. There is love, and resentment, and frailty. There are times I feel like I don’t even know him, and times I feel lucky to know him at all. There have been periods of closeness when we spoke on the phone every day, and a period when we didn’t speak for almost a year. To say the least, it’s been complicated.

But the greatest gift he has given me is my three brothers; Caleb, Ted, and Ted. Oh and my dad’s name is Ted. And my grandfather is Ted, too. How we ended up with a Caleb in the family I’ll never know, but it must have been the good sense of his mama. (I am very grateful not to be named Ted.)

There is a 20-year span between the oldest (me) and the youngest (Caleb). Ted Duane is 3 years my junior, and now lives in Tacoma. Even though we didn’t grow up together, he and I are two peas in a pod, so everyone says. “Y’all are just alike” says Caleb. “Yep” says Ted William, the quiet one.

Ted William is third in line. He is married to my gorgeous sister in law Heather, and has given me the additional gift of being an aunt to my two nephews Joshua and Jordan. Heather is another miracle in my life. She is beautiful and strong and has lived through way more than any woman in her twenties should have to, but still, she is the glue that holds our family together.

How my father found the time to populate the Earth with four children in between his stints in prison I’ll never know. In the 60s and 70s he was a heroin addict. He was in so much trouble all the time for stupid things like burglarizing his drug dealer’s house, violating parole, falling asleep in stolen cars, you name it, that they finally just threw him in prison. And that probably saved his life.

My dad has been living the life of the good citizen for the past 30 years, working for the city of Houston. His wife is the Head of the School Board. Dad was ordained a Baptist preacher 15 years ago at the Second Baptist church of Galena Park. Everyone in town knows and loves “Brother Butch” as they call him. (Too many Teds for such a small town). I am swarmed with well-wishers when I attend Dad’s church. “Y’all are Brother Butch’s daughter? Lucky girl! Your daddy is the best man in town” they say (and I can never get over them calling a singular person “y’all” but I kinda like it).

Here’s the kicker: Two of my brothers, Ted Duane and Caleb, are gay. So my father has had the challenge of coming to terms with his own past, and learning to fully accept his sons for who they are in contradiction to his religion. Suffice it to say he is possibly the least judgmental Christian you will ever meet. He accepts everyone as they are, and doesn’t criticize nor try to change them. He loves my brothers equally while acknowledging their unique qualities and characteristics. For instance, he appreciates that Caleb has a fabulous knack for decorating and helping my dad pick out matching clothes for church. Dad even has little pet names for my brothers, like Ted William is “Little Butch”, and Caleb is (add Texas twang here) “Gay boy” or “Queer Eye”. All said in love, and with good humor, but trust me, political correctness does not exist in this branch of my family tree.

I’ll never forget our family reunion in Texas a few years ago. We all stayed at Dad’s house, spouses, life-partners, kids and all. It was one big happy, week-long sleepover party. One night we gathered in the family room with pillows, blankets and popcorn and watched “Brokeback Mountain” together. At the end, my dad, the Baptist preacher, says, “Well, I guess I could kinda understand being gay. I mean, if it’s just hanging out with your buddies all day I guess I could be gay too….except for the butt-sex.”

Ah, those were good times.

Because we found each other late in life, it’s a priority for us to spend quality time together. We make the trip to see each other at least once or twice a year. We stay up late at night talking, asking deep questions about each other’s lives and histories. Often, Ted Duane and I have discussed how we feel we are closer than many brothers and sisters who have grown up together. We don’t have a lifetime of memories (or, for that matter, issues and resentment). We only have now, so we make every moment count.

This week will be spent with my brother Ted, or “Straight-Ted” as we call him, and his family. I’ll never forget the first time I met him. It was at my Dad’s house in the Fall of 2003. Ted and Heather walk in and I’m standing in the kitchen. He sees me, I smile wide, he walks up and throws his arms around me lifting me off my feet. Then he takes a few steps back to get a good look at me. “Wow, I can’t believe y’all are my sister!” He shakes his head with a look of wonder on his face. Heather looks back and forth at us standing together. “Y’all favor. Y’all definitely favor.” Ted hugs me again. “I’m so glad to meet you!” he says. He takes a step back again, looks puzzled. “Hey! What’s your name, anyway?”

Yeah, we had a lot to learn about each other. Since then, we’ve shared many good times, both in Texas and California. In 2005 Heather and I both got pregnant and had sons just three months apart. My nephew Joshua was born on Christmas Day, 2005. To have the father I never knew call me on Christmas morning to tell me I had just become an aunt was beyond surreal, and one of the best Christmases of my life.

It’s been a crazy journey for all four of us siblings. Not one of us had an easy life, but we’ve all grown up to be good, responsible, hard-working people. We are each a little bit wobbly, a little bit scarred, but hey, we’re still standing, and now we’ve got each other.

I just can’t wait to throw my arms around them all tomorrow. I look forward to heart to heart talks with my brother, coffee with Heather early in the mornings, watching the kids play together. I anticipate the rich memories that we are yet to be made this week, and for the rest of our lives.

I called this post the Gift of the Unexpected Family, and boy am I an expert in that area. In addition to this story, as many of you know I had the unexpected gift of my son Evan who came along in my forties when I was trying to have a mid-life crisis, and of course, now the unexpected gift of becoming a Mother-in-law and Grandmother in the span of six months. I'm having to remind myself to breathe quite often these days. But what great joy- what great gifts that I could never have imagined. I embrace every moment of it.

Today, my heart is full with the blessing that is my kooky, unexpected family. I encourage you all to take a moment to appreciate your kooky families today, too. In fact. how about we declare this “Kooky, unexpected, difficult, crazy-making-but-god-I-love-them Family Appreciation Week”?

Exhale...

It is now two days after Taylor and Aya’s wedding, and I am in bed with a head cold, which I had been fighting all last week but just didn’t have the time to succumb to. I am happily exhausted. Although not everything went exactly as I had planned, I think overall it was a success. The comment I got from the guests was that it was one of the most beautiful and deeply meaningful weddings they had ever been to. This was a wedding pulled together by a loving community of friends and family, and people could feel that.

I still can’t believe we made a wedding happen with only 20 days to plan. I suppose miracles truly can unfold in the presence of love. By the time the wedding day had rolled around, almost every guest there had contributed something to pull it all together, making it somewhat like an Amish barn raising.

Everywhere you looked you saw the handprint of someone who had put their time and heart into this wedding. Alice’s cake, our floral arrangements,100 white origami cranes that hung from the Oak tree, paper doily heart-messages strung by Darci, cupcakes and ceremony music by Taylor’s friends, Pam’s vintage clothes, quilts and tablecloths, Hayden’s handmade signs, Cristen’s custom Ipod mix that was the soundtrack to the reception- I could go on and on.

It made me realize in this day and age of consumerism, when the average wedding costs over $20,000, how much we lose. No cake in the world could have been more beautiful or tasted better than the one Alice made for Taylor and Aya, because we know how much love went into it. We could have bought 100 white cranes to hang from the trees, but then you wouldn’t have seen the handiwork of 12 friends who gathered, told stories and laughed while awkwardly trying to match Aya’s delicate precision in origami. No DJ would have been as thoughtful as Cristen staying up till 2 am selecting songs she knew her brother would love.


If I had hired a florist and a wedding planner, I would have missed out on all the time I spent staying up late making crafts with my new daughter-in-law, and watching my husband and son build a wedding arch together. I would have missed the sensory experience of shopping the flower mart with Aya and Erin, mad dashes to Costco, Starbucks runs for mid-day fades, joking and laughing while making floral arrangements with Erin, Beth and Cristen, setting the tables with Darci at 11pm, bleary eyed and exhausted but still laughing (after sharing a bottle of good wine). I wouldn’t have traded all that for the world.

I have to give a big shout out here to Mother Nature, for giving us one of the most beautiful, sunny days of the year while the rest of the country was buried under “Snowmageddon”. She also provided just the slightest breeze to make the tall green grass sway, lending a light rustling sound as background music for the vows. I know a lot of my friends were praying, thinking good thoughts, crossing fingers and toes, etc. So thank you one and all. It worked!

All in all, I used what was available to make this happen; Friends, family, creativity, the generosity of my neighbors, and the great outdoors. I suppose we could have spent $20,000 and had a beautiful wedding, aesthetically, but it wouldn’t have the heart of our small but mighty production. This wedding was about friends and family surrounding Taylor and Aya, holding them up as they enter into this new journey together. And isn’t that what love is all about?

Our Family is Growing...

What’s going on with the Dexters? No Christmas letter this year? All these cryptic facebook postings…..I know, I owe everyone a million calls, and I have no excuse really, other than the fact that, well, a LOT has been going on over here.

Aside from my recent Charlie and the Chocolate factory moment gone awry, a few much bigger, life-expanding changes have happened in our family.

First of all, In January Cristen and Rob split. Their careers were pulling them in different directions, and the long distance was too much. It was a shock to everyone, and it’s been very hard for her. But she is a strong girl, and she will love again. (Not that it will be easy to find another tall, handsome, successful guy who dotes on her and cooks, but there’s got to be a few out there… she will find him)

In other news, as many of you know, last year when Taylor toured Japan, he met a beautiful girl named Aya. She was already planning to move to the United States to continue her education, so it was perfect. They fell in love, as young people do, spending every free moment together. Maybe they spent a few too many free moments together, because one night Taylor came to me in tears and said we needed to have a serious talk. And I knew. Aya was pregnant.

I know what many of you are thinking right now. Taylor is so young and has so much promise. This will ruin his life. But look, I am the result of an unwanted teen pregnancy. I haven’t ruined anyone’s life so far (that I know of). I fully understand why some people need to decide otherwise. For years I worked with teens in foster care, with girls who had been working as prostitutes and were now pregnant, on probation, living in a group home. I will always vote pro-choice. But in our situation, I couldn’t see a baby being anything other than a gift. An unexpected, life-changing gift, yes, but when you think about it, aren’t all our greatest gifts unexpected?

For several weeks we lived in an emotional whirlwind while Taylor and Aya decided how they would handle this. We told them we loved them and would support whatever decision they made, but if they decided to keep this baby they could live here with us. We would help them raise the baby while they stayed in school and continued pursuing their dreams. Eventually this is what they decided to do.

In November, Aya moved in, and we have all been living as one big, happy, multi-cultural family. She had her first American Thanksgiving and Christmas with us, and we are learning to speak Japanese. Some nights I cook dinner, some nights she does. She absolutely loves Evan. She spends time teaching him Japanese, plays with him, bathes him and feeds him. I can tell she is going to be a great mother.

Aya's due date is June 17^th. She wants to stay home with the baby, at least in the beginning, but in doing so she will lose her student Visa and could be sent back to Japan. She's got to have a green card to stay here legally, so....we had three weeks to plan a wedding. If I pull this off well, I should be awarded some type of Mom Superhero name...I'll leave it up to all of you to decide.

Taylor and Aya were engaged on Christmas Eve, and will be married next Sunday, on Valentine’s Day. They will say their vows up on the mountain behind our home. The same person who married us will be performing the ceremony. We figured that was good luck. After all, Troy and I worked out pretty well.

As John Lennon said, life is what happens while you are busy making other plans. Don’t we know it! None of us were prepared for this, that’s for sure. But hello….the moment is here. So we roll our sleeves up and we say YES to it. We pull together as a family and lift up this young marriage, supporting them through the challenges that every new couple faces.

I'm not saying it will be easy, but through all these changes and upheaval, there is one thing I am absolutely certain of. This little baby will be surrounded with family and love and laughter. Those are things that have never been, and will never be, in short supply around here.

Now, cross your fingers everyone, and chant with me….NO RAIN on Valentine’s Day!!!

Home

Home is anywhere my husband and children are.

It is Andy Williams on Christmas morning. It is the memory of our black Labrador Sky asleep and softly snoring at the foot of the bed. It is the smell of coffee brewing in the morning. It is lazy-bones pajama days, and rainy days, and spring cleaning days.

Home is baking cookies with the baby, spirited political conversations with my son over dinner, our daughter’s footsteps mounting the stairs when she comes home to visit. It is comedy and tragedy and power struggles and loud singing in the shower.

Home is the neighbor’s barking dog, the coyotes howling, the peacocks wild calls, the croaking symphony of frogs after a heavy rain, the hawks screeching as they take the fledglings out for the first solo flight of Spring. It is impossibly yellow fields of mustard flowers that stretch on forever and wildfires and rattlesnakes and dust storms.

Home is creaking floors and hollow front steps that alert the presence of every visitor with reverberating sound. It is sunlight filtering through stain glass, casting rainbow prisms onto walls. It is potty training and college aid applications and bills and our dog Brandy barking at the mailman every single day. It is the sound of music seeping through the walls, the smell of turpentine and linseed oil wafting through the air vents. It is creativity and laughter and exhaustion. It is cats hogging up all the sleeping space on my side of the bed every night.

Home is the rooster crowing while the garbageman loudly clangs and crashes his way down the street. It is the absolute stillness of 3am, the cat puking at 4 am, the neighbors Harley revving up at 5 am, and the baby waking up singing at 6 am. It is the Christmas season and flu season and allergy season and tax season and back to school supplies and awkward family get togethers. It is laughing together about all of these things in the aftermath.

It is the quiet inner knowing that against the bustle, chaos, struggle, joy and strains of being a family lies the absolute perfection of love in action.

Home is anywhere my husband and children are.

If you died tomorrow, what would you miss?

When I die (one day, a long, long time from now....) I will miss holding my children and grandchildren close to me. I will miss watching them grow and expand as people. I will miss loving my husband. I will miss the struggles and challenges we took on together, and the growing stronger as a couple. I will miss the feel of him, and seeing his sweet face and sleepy eyes in the morning.

I will miss Spring, and birds, and everything in full bloom. I will miss the wonder and creation of new life. I will miss perfect days like today, when the sun shines, all the windows are open, birds are atwitter and a gentle breeze blows the white gauzy sheers in and out as though the house were quietly breathing.

I will miss making music, and painting, and writing. I will miss wonderful conversation with friends, cocktail and dinner parties. I will miss Christmas with my family. I will miss petting cats, and holding babies, and the smell of a newborn puppy. I will miss the beautiful sky and it’s many colors and moods. I will miss all the places in the world that I never got to see but dreamed of. I will miss being inspired. I will miss vacations with my family. I will miss sharing conversation and a bottle of wine with my husband while we cook dinner. I will miss being deeply in love.