Alone, Not Lonely

She silently walks over, stands in front of me, and looks up at my face.

"What are we going to do next?"

My daughter is on spring break. All of my children had a week to themselves this spring. With three kids at three schools and three different breaks, they've each had to cope with some downtime alone.

Of course, we've done plenty of activities together. But not 24/7. Some of the kids deal with the non-24/7 thing better than others.

This child always has a tough time of it. She's a twin, and the assertive/dominant of the two. Yet, despite her assertiveness, dominance, appearance of self-confidence, tendency to be opinionated -- you get the picture -- when her twin is around, she's completely different without her sister.

She's totally and completely lost without her. She's lonely.

So she turns to me as her surrogate.

But her twin -- the follower, the passive one, the one you'd think would not be able to cope without her "leader" -- doesn't have this problem. She loves the time she spends with her sister, the rest of the family, her friends, but she doesn't rely on them to have a good time. She knows how to be alone.

It's the difference between being lonely and being alone.

But I'm their mother. I can't stop at just identifying this difference between the twins. If I assert, as I do, that it's my job to give my kids the tools they need to become successful, independent adults, then I need to teach the lonely daughter how she can enjoy time by herself. Spending some time alone, pursuing one's own pleasures, is a necessary and unavoidable part of life.

I can't teach this by ignoring her, not by frustratingly stating, "go find something to do!" This doesn't help her. She doesn't know what to do. She feels a sense of loss without her twin nearby. So I show her our plan of activities we're going to do together, and then we make a plan of the things she enjoys that she can do by herself.

Today is Day 5 of her spring break: the last day she'll have to spend without her twin. We've done a lot of fun things together, and a few things alone. I think she's more comfortable with herself today than she was on Monday.

All in all, we've had a good week! Still, she's counting the hours until school's out for her twin. And, I confess, I'm counting the days until Monday, when all three kids are back in school.

Because when I'm alone, I'm not lonely.

How Do You Doodle?

I realize the title of this post sounds like a corny greeting. A play on words, this post is really about doodling. You know, those chicken-scratches you leave in the margins of paper without really thinking about what you're doing.

Given a sheet of paper, a pencil, and some idle time, what would you create?

I doodle words. Lists, often, but also verbal sketches. Rarely pictures.

{Incidentally, I was a writer when I worked full-time, and I still write for enjoyment.}

My husband doodles flowcharts, interface design. Some words are involved, but essentially he's drawing connections that he sees in his mind, putting form to thoughts and relationships.

{He's a technology business owner now, a computer programmer by training.}

But that's not all. Sometimes he doodles with another part of his brain, and the result is wonderful poetry!

My son doodles by drawing, never writing. Although I wish his mind stayed attentive to his schoolwork during the day, he daydreams. I know this because I see the drawings sketched in the margins or on the back of his papers when he brings them home. I see the scraps of paper he leaves all over the house. He has a talent -- a gift -- for drawing. And seeing his doodles brings me joy, because I see each one as a glimpse into his future.

{I think he'll be a designer of some type -- likely architecture, from what I see in his drawings -- when he's older.}

Childhood is a time for trying out new things, having experiences, exploring abilities, defining interests. As a parent of three children, I find myself looking for clues about what they might pursue later in life. Sometimes those clues are right in front of me, unspoken but very real.

Sometimes they're on scraps of paper.

Doodling just might be the way our inner passions are expressed concretely. Without overthinking. Just creating. Time will tell whether the clues my children leave me now truly are portholes to their futures.

How do you doodle?

Life, Resumed

It's been seven long months of troubleshooting, recovery, and waiting.

First the stress fracture in my hip. Nearly 10 weeks on crutches, then the resumption of activities. But not quite; something still didn't feel right. So two months of troubleshooting, then surgery and recovery.

Yes, it's been a frustrating seven months.

It's like watching a video feed on a slow computer, or a movie from a scratched disc. The images seem to start and stop, like someone's playing around with the Pause and Play buttons. You can technically watch the video this way, but it's not very satisfying.

But life is full of its starts and stops, isn't it? I accept this; I'm just too impatient to like it.

Today I met with my doctor for what I really, really hope is the very last time. I'm ready to put the last seven months behind me, and finally move on. Fortunately, he agreed: he gave me medical clearance to resume any and all activities.

So now I am resuming my former active life. No more Pause for me... it's time to Play!

Gives You Hell

The All American Rejects have a hit in "Gives You Hell."

I mean, who hasn't wanted to give someone hell before? Don't tell me there's not a single person who comes to mind when you hear this song?

"Gives You Hell" has universal appeal. Doesn't matter if it's meant for an ex (an obvious allusion), a former teacher or boss (maybe one who didn't think you'd achieve much), a parent (one whose expectation you couldn't live up to, or who abandoned you), an old friend (a falling out), or any other person important to you.

Whoever it was, and for whatever reason, it all fell apart. And it hurt. But you picked yourself up and moved on. Sort of.

Because if you'd really moved on, you wouldn't be singing this song. So loud. With that person's image in your mind.

But, you know, it goes both ways. Yeah, I hope it "gives you hell," but someone hopes it gives me hell, too.

Or did.

Love and hate are two expressions of the same emotion: passion. "Truth be told, I miss you. Truth be told, I'm lyin'."

Although I know I felt exactly as the All American Rejects at one time, I just don't now. Call it a mellowing, a maturing. After reflection, it's just not so raw anymore.

My life is really good -- for me. But I don't need to prove it to someone who is no longer in my life. Or compare it to anyone else's. And I don't need to make anyone feel bad, though at one time I might have felt I did.

Paths cross. We live, we love. (Isn't that another song? Well, lyrics are the poetry of our times.) We move on. We learn. Then we use those experiences to become who we're meant to be.

Years ago, I might have wanted to give you hell. Or you might have wanted that for me. But if I meet you on the street today, I'll simply say "Hello" and, yes, I'll even smile. Will you do the same for me?

They Pray

Though a bit chilly, the day was crisp, clear, and bright. The deep blue skies contrasted neatly with the white exhaust from airplanes high above.

As my daughters were playing outside, they noticed two such lines in the sky, perfectly criss-crossed -- like a "T" or an "X" or a cross.

Excited, they took it as a sign from heaven.

Specifically, from Grandpa Bill in heaven.

So they stopped their scootering and prayed to Grandpa Bill on the driveway. {Imagine two 10-year-olds, heads lifted upward, eyes closed, hands clasped together.}

This was their prayer:

"Dear Grandpa Bill,

We hope you like heaven. We hope you get to have all the candy you want. We hope you get to eat chocolate for breakfast. And chocolate for lunch. And chocolate for dinner. And that you don't have to eat your supper first.

Amen."

Grandpa Bill has been gone one month already. But I guess that's not really right... he will always be with us, especially when we least expect him.

Can We Ever Really Go Back?

Our unanimous favorite of the vineyards we visited two years ago in Napa Valley was Truchard.

The wine was very good, but Betsy, our tour guide, was the highlight. Fun and approachable, she poured generously, and we giggled our way through the tour! Truchard is a small vineyard with a small staff; the employees, along with their families, picnic together at lunch during harvest. They do not own their own bottling facility. Like many other small vineyards, they use a portable bottling facility (the back of a truck!). We were fascinated to watch this efficient, yet seemingly casual, process while we were there.

Although Betsy was our favorite tour guide and was so delightful, it was Linda, a long-time Truchard employee, who provided us with the best quote of the trip: "It takes a lot of beer to make a good wine!"

Not long ago, I received a postcard from Truchard. Instantly the memories from that trip flooded my mind.

The four of us had such a great time on that trip to Napa that we're planning a return trip this summer. We're all looking forward to another memorable trip, perhaps this time with more friends joining us.

But as I think ahead to that trip, I wonder if we can really go back?

{I can't help but feel like Carrie Bradshaw as I pose that question. In the television series Sex and the City, every episode was centered around a question the character asked in her weekly column.}

When we have a really great experience, we often want to re-create it. We try to do everything the same in order to achieve the pleasure that we felt the first time we experienced it. But it's never quite the same the second time around.

Out of the hundreds of vineyards in the Napa/Sonoma/St. Helena area, we visited a dozen or fewer. For our next trip, we certainly have options: Will we revisit those that left us with such memorable experiences? Or will we leave those memories intact and make new ones?

Can we ever really go back?

Double Digit Duo

To two twins turning ten:

Ten years ago today, you surprised us with your early arrival -- three months ahead of schedule. You fought and we cried and you grew and we sighed and they helped and we all became family.

Every day for months, we visited you in the hospital while you clung to life.

Some days you grew weaker, more days you grew stronger.

Still, weighing just 4 lbs 4 oz and 4 lbs 10 oz three months later, you finally joined us at home.

Ten years ago, it was so difficult to imagine you big.

And now you are! Yet amid all the partying today, I'm sobered at how quickly a decade can pass us by.

My lovely, beautiful girls: I'm forever thankful that you fought to stay with us, though it would have been perhaps easier to succumb and leave us. But you knew we wanted you and needed you, and you seized every opportunity you had to stay with your family. And you've brought us such joy!

(Yes, even to your brother.)

Happy Birthday, my darlings! You're now in double digits. Enjoy the coming decade, for it goes by so quickly.