Like Firefly Light

When I gave birth to Jules, in the same 24 hours I was ready for her to go to college.

Sending her and her younger brother to sleep-away camp for the first time — in a pocket of rural Tennessee thick with trees, mud and bugs — it felt too soon.

It also felt I was given a new lease on life.

We're at 20 years of marriage today and for more than a decade rarely get a night, let alone several days, alone. If we do it might be spent watching World Cup matches.

As the thick heat of summer sets in here, there are three trips to the neighborhood pool in one day. Cole concocts otherworldly, underwater battles and surface skirmishes with the strength of a synchronized swimmer. His colorful, 3D-printed reptiles and aquatic dinosaurs (swimming marine reptiles he calls them more accurately) are dashed through the water with powerful, crashing sound effects. He's clad in goggles and fins, rolling and diving with the grace of an otter. When forgotten momentarily, the creatures float brightly. Then are lined up in rows that reflect categories or to create a tense, lying-in-wait riverbank scene.

Jules snaps a pic for us while
Cole does his trademark move.

It had cooled off a little. A heat wave was hitting Europe. As we prepared for our latest and longest lake trip, Cary says, "I'm so glad we aren't in France right now, going to Paris like we thought we would."

I scream at him, laughing. Our summer wedding day was as heated as our life discussions. A trip to Paris, Tennessee it is. I love the irony so much it's worth it for the laughs, like the pure martyrdom of being married to a stand-up comedian.

I want a record player. We got a 3D printer. There's not a lot of space in our townhome so Johnny Cash on vinyl will likely wait.

Cole inspects each of the pool filters upon arrival every time. Beetles. Wasps. Frogs. Cockroaches. Spiders. He’ll rescue frogs that are alive, rinsing them off with the pool hose since we learned chlorine will kill them if exposed for too long.

We read together most every night and if I'm holding the book, he'll sometimes run his finger over the dimple he's discovered on my wrist. The one created by the angle of holding something, the dip between your tendons. He asks what it is, tries to recreate it in his own wrist but is still too pumped up with collagen. He sets his thumb in mine when I tease it's a spot that will always perfectly fit your kid's thumb so you know you belong to each other. Neither kid believes me of course but my youngest likes the overly sweet joke.

He's turning brown as caramel again.

Jules is growing. More in mind than height, and I worry the latter will affect how people view the former. She's tiny and observant, determined and funny. Makes dramatic silly faces and does a spot-on goblin voice. Up for travel. Needs privacy at unexpected moments. Wants every subject or activity to be solely arts and crafts. Silent as a mime then talks a blue streak before bed or when she's excited. An old soul we have to remember to safeguard still.

I dread the moment when my hand won't really span the width of their backs anymore. When our holding hands doesn't make me feel invincible, because I've got them and they're invincible with me.

The other day Cary and I looked up where we had our first date in the fall of our year abroad, on Google Maps. It's there. The Indian restaurant we walked to from the Newbold campus, him taking the outside on the sidewalk to "protect" me. Food so spicy I drank a pitcher of water. He mentioned wanting to be a pilot in the military one day. I was agreeable, more focused on the waiter kindly interrupting to provide me with more water.

The best parts have always been the wanderlust, together, adding to the crew when possible. Plants nursed back to life after transport, a beloved dog we'll always remember. Cole planking and Jules creating. Life takes bravery and the companions and careers you pick or pick you lend both spicy sparks and cool you down when the temperature gets too high.

Our time huddled together happy or busy or tumultuous is fading, like the wake of our old boat with the big engine as we leave a cove we swam, snacked, yelled and talked in for a long time. Dispersing into memory. Queue the Interstellar music on the mobile speaker.

We dropped them off for camp in the rain and picked them up in the rain. We had date nights while they got mosquito bites.

Cole didn't get homesick. Jules glared when we picked her up, taking her away from new friends. Cole grinned big and was a little quiet, his voice soft and demeanor calm after a week of socializing and movement. He drank OJ every morning after downing the camp's mandatory glass of water. Jules got the "tough cookie" award after falling off her bunk bed and barely crying. She defended Cole from a rough kid. They taught us the songs and games they learned. They went barefoot into the mud pit at the end of a hike. Jules gave herself a mud updo. Cole didn't have soap in the shower all week but confidently said he used water.

The stories trickled out. Cicadas their own soundtrack.

Cary rescued baby ducks out of the pool while Cole was gone and took pictures. Cole was shocked he missed it. We had noticed the fireflies are back visiting, their flickering lights as magical and hard to focus on as ever, like time, and we were eager to show the kids.

They already knew of course.

Disgrace Under Fire

The stegosaurus is known for its small brain, 
the size of a walnut. We have a lot in common sometimes.

I wish I could say confidently that I am a boss, but I really am such a child in many of the stressful moments of our moving military family lives.

However I will say it would break some others. Like a really nervous pet?

I have learned that getting my nails done and buying things like a $20 pink Himalayan salt lamp — which the kids and their friends would later dare each other to lick during sleepovers — helps me be less of a wreck. Something about some new, mood-adjusting piece of cheap decor or little tech gadget, or a refreshing health shot in a glass bottle, or the best nail art example I could find on the internet, makes renting furniture or eating off a paper towel standing up just fine.

If I'm being honest, often it's a glass of wine too. Or two. Maybe an IPA.

Other times it's a movie seemingly made just for me. Or the silliest show for the youth of today, but they can't watch it because they have homework. An indulgent book. A bunch of charcuterie items with no one to share them. Or a new alpha generation slang term I get to use around the kids to see what they do. Perhaps including a new accent I'm trying out.

It's saying no to things that make me miserable, while saying yes to things like olive oil lattes and yes, I'll plan the date night so I get to have it.

It also helps to write down the stressful things, see the humor, try to make someone else feel better.

It's been seven moves in 15 years. Sometimes every two years. Same goes for jobs, and at times more often because lay-offs, pregnancies and a pandemic can happen. Same goes for homes, schools, doctors, haircuts and haunts.

Same goes for commutes where I'm flying down a highway I don't know how to keep up with, hitting pot holes I didn't know were there, and wondering if I should carpool with these confident speedsters to get myself to work quicker in the heart of the city.

Same goes for threats of a snap deployment that leaves me single again. (The Navy uses other phrasing, but that takes more words to explain and nobody cares.)

At one point it hit me. Being a military spouse and parent really has become my identity. Oof. Why do I feel this way? Everyone has an identity and it's not always what they intended. No person has only one layer, yet there's an outer one we maybe can't help but fight as it takes over. Like that weird "cover the Earth" Sherwin Williams paint ad. I crave in equal parts adventure and normalcy and achievement. Often a tough three-legged stool to build. I teeter quite a bit.

But we're also explorers and Gumbies.

We've lived longer elsewhere and on-the-go than in our hometowns.

What else would we really be doing?

Ha! Sometimes I'm so mad I scream into the void. Then it's one breath, one task, one joy, one challenge charged through clumsily, one unexpected win. And I see him out of context. Passing each other on the drive home with a wave I actually see, or reuniting after splitting up the kids for different things at another foreign-to-us local event. And I know it's because I'm happy. The kids we take care of together are happy, running towards me from somewhere else.

The grass is a little yellow everywhere.

Bamahenge

Swamp Thang

If at middle age I catch myself walking around work with toilet paper trailing from my waistband, I can't imagine what I'll be like at 80.

My hearing started going in high school my friends will tell you laughing.

Cary will probably have to hide my car keys sooner than I think.

In the last several years any time I eat something spicy or tart, like lemon candy or cherry tomatoes or grapefruit juice – curry or salsa – my tongue's taste buds will start shifting into a pretend map of the world. Stress or being sick too. I know what it is, relatively harmless but weird; I come from a family of oral healthcare practitioners. But in my mind, it's my body's way of telling me it's the beginning of the end.

Or I need a break. Yeah let's go with that. A chance to pay more attention and take better care. (Which we all know is good for everyone involved.)

I remember my tender tongue began after Cole was born.

When Jules was a newborn, I started having tender feet right when I got out of bed.

I became emotionally tender-headed.

We push through it. These things are almost-always-most-likely nothing or normal.

My right hip now has good days and bad.

My timed mile I won't share.

I saw somewhere if you don't take a break, at some point your body will take a break for you.

It's felt that way as we've settled into our new home that constantly shifts. A repair. Fixing up an old boat. The threat of a change in life plans. A kid getting sicker. My husband getting busier than I've ever seen him, somehow still managing to do early morning dishes and late night laundry. Somehow quietly. Setting us up for work trips with pre-built meals.

While I'm just happy to be here if I'm employed and the kids aren't ill or in trouble. Delighted when the house isn't a wreck, and I'm there at the peaceful office or bustling event with our smart, kind, funny team. They make me feel like a marketing champ. Like a liberal arts degree is as powerful as numbers. Of course then I'll make a gaff and curse my name. Miss an opportunity due to family obligations and scorch my own earth.

I heard somewhere to give yourself a thousand breaks. Then give yourself a thousand more.

Between podcasts and forcing extra sleep, early mornings on the porch creasing a borrowed book and worrying about it, and runs turned to jogs, things are better. Over a long period of time. There's no rushing it. If there was I'd be 80 sooner and worse off.

We hit the water when we can, with snacks he packs – due to a father who makes time he doesn't have. The sun, sky, fresh air and cooling off is rallying for the weeks.

Jules made a new best friend when she moved here simply because a mini bell pepper in her lunch started a conversation. Now all of us like being friends with Kitty.

Cole's friends help him not leave anything behind when we pick him up.

Not every day is easy for any of us. Anywhere.

Jules likes to hear my embarrassing stories growing up and now. There are many. She has her own. She makes me retell mine when something happens to her. Takes everything in and I see her confidence rebounding on her face. It's starting to work on Cole.

Meanwhile we all can't help but gawk at and tease Cary when he gets a horrible reaction to poison sumac, trying to save us some money by working on a hard area of the yard. We all then watch YouTube videos about sumac, poison oak and poison ivy. Cole makes Lego versions that are uncanny and giggles while rubbing them on Cary.

Even though everyone feels like a swamp thing sometimes, Swamp Thing was a DC Comics hero. And "we're all made of the same stuff."

Florida Boy

Sticking with my new theme of one blog post per calendar year, I'll resume where I left off in the nick of time.

When Cary got back from deployment we proceeded to live in harmony for 90 days, followed by 90 days of stress as we navigated the squadron closing. We assessed another move that hopefully this, this, THIS time would ring true. So we scrambled once again to continue giving our jobs our all and our kids ridiculous opportunities.

We went life-hunting, seeing who would take us and returning to Pensacola plus a fixer-upper. I moved to another wonderful workplace, while Cary is thrilled to teach flight. We were lucky enough to get another sunny, beach-riddled setting; this one cheaper yet richer in wildlife and natural disasters which can destroy you. Plus renovation. Which can and will also destroy you.

When Cary got off the plane after six months away in Asia, I had pretended to be falling apart with a guacamole face mask, sweats, the kids haphazard with giant snacks in tow, my rolling suitcase apparently packed.

"What happened to you?" he said with a laugh as the three of us rushed him.

The square complete, as my friend would say.

We all got a feather in our hats which no one can take away.

Not long after, I had to miss a great work event because Cary was doing something called ground turns. On the ground. An aircraft just driving around. The moral of the story is you can't do this life without a wicked sense of humor. Laughing out loud at yourself. Music played louder. Dancing or singing in front of the kids. Forcing self care. These things are like shots of water in a stretch of Sahara like a deployment or a move. Plus the little moments written down for me to absorb months later are like more shots. *whispers: shots, shots, shots*

Jules thinks glimmering pale mint toothpaste is the most beautiful color in the world.

Cole could win an Oscar for how he method-acts animals.

I learned the word bailiwick in my 40th year.

Hearing Cary talk about teaching aviation students. (Also asking ourselves, were we ever that fresh-faced?)

Meeting a military spouse in my shoes years ago and seeing her killing it at her career planning.

Finding stickers on my hair dryer and Kindle.

Not removing them.

The stranger kindnesses.

The inside jokes.

Missing people. Then talking to them on the phone and feeling like it's still the same.

Cracking up with siblings.

When your parents make you feel important.

Text messages and emails from previous colleagues with compliments and GIFs.

GIFs.

More and more of Jules' baby teeth are getting pushed out, her softness continuing to turn sharp while Cole still feels rounded at every edge; though his hair is now cropped short and I don't even know who he is anymore. *wink*

We show the kids, while chuckling, how to run in a zig-zag if an alligator comes at them. How to avoid snakes. How to deal with bad insect bites. (Our Google history must've been extra-funny after we arrived.) They grow tougher as they go through it. As Jules struggles to catch her breath with newfound asthma and hives, and Cole struggles to behave how people want. We argue about hurricane preparedness and the expense of everything.

I recall Jules being achingly bad at ballet and blissfully unaware, now determined and excelling at karate.

Cary and I talk about Cole seeming like either a Navy SEAL, a PETA warrior, or a beach bum who pontificates about dinosaurs.

We get forgotten and make new impressions, which takes more effort than we think. I try to take up less space then more, then less. Talk more. Talk less. The right name doesn't matter, if it's Amy or Alt. What Cary flies doesn't matter. The world doesn't revolve around us nor do we it.

Right is a small box invented by people who are afraid. I barely understood Everything Everywhere All at Once but I loved that.

And when you reach a point in life where your stomach lurches at the sound of children's voices in the night, but then realize it was just your stomach – you've arrived. At older age. Not always wiser but something. Achier? More seasoned? Less able to handle seasoning?

I lay in bed – now wide awake – and think about the leftover fish I ate.

We've all technically become Florida people but especially Cole, who sticks his belly on an ant hill on a dare, has learned air quotes, and fights back against anything that bites him.

He talks confidently to strangers at church.

While I was nervous about a presentation at work a while back, it still seemed to go OK. But the best part was when I sat down and things ended, the woman in front of me turned around and said, "Your hair is amazing." I guess I'll take it.

The kids are alright and so are we.

Everyday We're Shuffling

I only lost it once over the holidays so I consider it a win of a deployment season.

Staying with family feels like coming home. But you can't go home again, "they" say, and I think I see why. You've changed. They've changed. Everything else has changed. That's normal, and I seriously was reminded of that quote while watching The O.C. for the third time and it's funny because the dumbest character says it.

You grow up. That doesn't mean you handle everything with logic and grace. When I open the gates even a little, often the flood comes out.

I was telling Jules again the other day how it's OK to cry. She says, I know but I don't like to cry. Hm. Yeah. Good point. It does suck. I pretty much never feel better. Maybe mentally but not physically and that kind of ruins it.

I miss my co-parent the most. Because we can still talk, text or email, I get my best friend back now and then. But because he's not here to parent, I don't always get his dose of a second opinion when I need it. (Though I did make him put them to bed the other night, listening to his stern voice through the phone while I cleaned up.)

I was coaxing Cole out of my parents' house to go to my siblings' over Thanksgiving break, and it just built and built and I had told my parents to wait in the car, and Jules the peacemaker had stayed over with cousins, and he was fighting me so hard. I wanted him to see he was hurting me, making it hard. So I let myself tear up. His face softened but he didn't budge much. We sat staring at each other and breathing heavily. Me with tears streaming, wishing my husband and his dad was there with us right then and now instead of serving everyone else.

It seemed like everyone always loves hanging out with Jules but not Cole.

Cary would've said, it's just because he's only three. He's not old enough to do full-on sleepovers and be more manageable yet. Remember it's us against the world.

However I couldn't think of that in the moment, on my own.

I couldn't remember how much I love that sweet, wild child exactly as he is at every stage unconditionally always and forever. Couldn't vent. Couldn't download. Couldn't be embraced and supported the way only his father knows how to do best. Not perfect but best.

Yet I'm tired. So when we returned to sunny California from my homey northwest, my angel of a mom-in-law and Grammie-in-law watched the kids while I went to the spa, sitting in the foggy steam room till my eyes felt better finally and where I couldn't even see the sporadic other person in the tiled space.

Then I lay on a pool chair while reading as I watched people ice skating at The Del in bikinis.

Everything isn't so bad.

We all got back in our beloved routine filled with tiny San Diego excursions which breathe life into all of us. Things then continued to get jacked up by random COVID scares. Which always give my heart palpitations and stress despite my best efforts but also moments with my children I wouldn't have had otherwise – which I know one day I'll wish to live twice. I want off this ride but it's life so I guess I don't.

We saw family again another weekend in my husband's hometown. I ran into old college friends while wearing Grammie's coat since she was worried I wouldn't be warm enough at the park (she was right), which was adorable but probably not the coolest item.

Donkeys were everywhere from the Loma Linda hills so Grammie and I dodged their poop with the kids.

I drove out of the way with the kiddos to hit up and stock up at my fave Mexican spot in grad school and realized I feared for our lives. The kids had a blast though taking quarters from a determined homeless man to work the games and vending machines.

Cary's mom came down so I could go to my work holiday party for free but traffic was murder and I still had to leave early to get them from school and daycare. However for that one hour it was so nice to talk shop and not deployment or kids too much. Though when I did with Liz we commiserated over our tough boys, and my heart swelled and kept healing with mutual understanding.

We got matching really cute Christmas pajamas for once this year but mine looked funny on me, Jules' ended up being too tight she admitted though she powered through for 24 hours, and Cole's were adorable but he didn't have the patience for the buttons or the heat. We got some of my favorite, horrible pics though. #worthit

Then Jules got a light-bright type art thing for Christmas and it looks cool in the dark, so while I'm cooking Christmas morning breakfast she calls me and Cole in to check it out. It's dark and needs to be darker; Cole closes the door. We all admire the lit-up drawing. I turn around with spatula in hand to find the door locked from the outside. Shit. I panic for 15 seconds. Jules says it's OK, I can go out the (high, tiny) window. My friends are out of town. One neighbor I know too. I picture us all burning to death from our breakfast or at the very least the fire department showing up or CPS again. LUCKILY, I had my phone on me. So I called my other, closest neighbor (the couple who takes my barrels out and in every Wednesday and it breaks my heart with glee), and she follows my instructions to get in the still-locked-from-the-night house and save us all. Not even making me feel bad. Then brings over goodies they had gotten the kids and I.

God bless them.

I fix the doorknob, figuring out how to turn the knob around the right way with a Phillips and some jimmying. *pat on back*

I fall into bed every night.

Though I hate going to sleep because when I wake up, Cary won't be awake till later afternoon. It's sad and lonely when the person who cares most about us isn’t conscious enough to care.

And what is it about being a parent maybe that makes me cry in every damn movie?

Cary must miss the kids so much.

And we keep losing people in real life. Which breaks my heart for everyone involved.

My heart feels like it can't take much more. Then it can. Like the Grinch's.

I can't go home because I'm this different person who cries in movies and has heart palpitations and stress without being an essential worker or working on Wall Street, but also shuffles through the day rock star style. I think of my Grams sometimes, who would come help these days if we could live and feel good forever, and if anything she would tell me she's proud of my own bravery.

Even though bravery can be selfish, giving can be self-serving, and serving can be a sacrifice that's too much, I still think, Fly Navy. We're almost home.

In Omnia Paratus: Not So Much

Cary screenshotted us from Okinawa.

A newsletter I get through work has great quotes. They usually make me laugh, or feel happy or encouraged. But this one edition brought up a Latin quote from Gilmore Girls – "in omnia paratus." Or "ready for all things" essentially. I liked it. And then I didn't.

We felt ready for deployment. We were. Prepped to the point of creating ease and paving the way for help and peace of mind. You can't be ready for all things. No one is always coming. Yet we're putting pavement beneath and behind us every moment.

The snails there are huge.

I watched a movie about bears with the kids, and aside from the amazing things mama bears do – like mamas in real life – I mainly resonated with their hibernation, which works for a lot of necessary recharging especially at the beginning of deployment. Then there are the days I commit to two birthday parties for different reasons and stumble into bed feeling tired in my bone marrow.

Jules: Are you gonna be back for my birthday?

Cary: No I'll miss your birthday. And Cole's birthday... And mama's birthday. But I'll be back for mine.

Jules laughs.

For the first few weeks when I'd hear the neighbor's gate or ours when something's delivered, I couldn't help but jump inside thinking it was him.

Cole got potty-trained in the nick of time. Not before pooping at the same friend's house a second time and wondering if pink eye was coming for us this time.

I also don't love when we get home and they didn't eat enough hosted dinner, so now I have to give them second dinner before bed. I don't do it the next time.

With this friend – who dealt with the threat of poop again and kids complaining the sausage is too spicy while falling out of their chairs and screaming – I discuss signing up for things. Swim this time since she's been jumping through hoops like I had several months before. Why is signing kids up for stuff so complicated sometimes? We ponder.

I now drive a minivan. It's my favorite minivan and green and ours with an affordable Nevada plate and doors we don't have to interact with nor seats we have to squish into with guests, but it still killed a little of my soul and chipped away a little of my identity. I wanted to rage against the minivan. But it's a vehicle. And I'm practical. So it's me and can handle the mountains we visit. I buy knock-off expensive sneakers six months later and feel a little bit better too.

We're in the van, just Jules and I heading from after-school care to get Cole from daycare.

Jules: I'm so glad I was born.

The best weekends with this sassy angel and my sour patch kid are spent on the couch with two breakfasts in a row plus an outing where we breathe life into the truck that sits lonely all week. In the evenings or in bed I decompress, sitting in the quiet for a moment and listening to my breath or heart that I think beats too fast these days, feeling solely responsible for them and feeling every pulled muscle from the day. Exhausted but wanting to look at pictures and videos of them on my phone like most parents. Needing alone time but feeling lonely.

Sometimes when I share a schedule idea with the kids... "How about we eat and get ready then go to the library then the park."

Cole says: I like your plan, Mom!

I learn only military spouses understand.

At work the single parents and parents and married couples and former service members or spouses relate. At work, without operating on anyone or operating an aircraft, it's a break and a lovely workout for my brain. It's something that's mine alone, that I can care about with both a selfish and selfless, passionate level of service and skill.

At opposite points in the day, besides the weekend vegetation or sense of adventure, the kids are there and then not there. I can't soak up every detail enough during the day. I want to drink them up and feel them inside me again, keep them safe. However I don't want to be wiggled and kicked against or jumped on, spilled on, sneezed on.

The more I learn, the more I realize how much I don’t know. Albert Einstein.

We all miss Butters.

I want to prove them right. That we can do it.

We're running out of gas and I'm getting used to the van fuel gauge. It's dangerously low suddenly on my way home from work, and I'm not sure exactly how many miles to the base gas station though it's near. After grabbing Jules and then pulling away from Cole's daycare I say I hope we make it.

Cole: "I believe in you, Mom!

Me too.

Old Town has been the best excursion yet.

Don't Die, Don't Die, Don't Die, Don't Die*

On my morning jogs, an older woman keeps randomly wandering out from her house the same time I'm near, shouting: "ALY! ALY!"

ALY!!!

It's some animal named Aly. (Probably not spelled the same.) Scared the bejesus out of me the first few times. Especially that first time. Then I started putting it together. Seems like it's the highlight of her day. So I'm gonna keep on pretending it's me she's desperate to see instead of a sly, silky black cat or aging golden retriever.

I read this book How to Talk So Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk. Let's just say of course it's harder to pick up than the latest mystery sitting on my Kindle. This is maybe the third or second kid help book I've read. I remember some things; I try them out. Nothing really works that great. But one day I'm driving Cole to daycare and he's freaking out because he dropped his dinosaur in our humongous ginormous new used minivan and there's no way I can reach it.

Anyone else pulled muscles reaching for things in the car, risking everyone on the road's life because you can't take the tortuous sound? Definitely #notworthit.

So the book tells you to get imaginative, wish with them and get creative about how you wish too – how you wish you could give them what they want with your magical wizard parent powers. I'm so dunzo with these meltdowns where they can't see logic so I commit with a passionate, drama-drunk gusto.

"Cole! I want to get it for you too!! I wish I had Elastigirl's arms and could reach back and grab it with one long loopy noodle wrist. Or I wish I was a fancy white-haired wizard with a beard who could just POOF! – wave my powerful wand and say my powerful spell and make the dinosaur appear out of thin air, lifted up from the floor or zapped into your haaaand!!!!!!!!!!

I've tried this before. But not with as much Oscar-worthy endeavor. It worked like a charm.

And the 1,000 pages of kid help books were worth it. For that one time when I didn't have to listen to him scream.

His response? A quick pause. "And then there was snow?" he asks quietly.

"Sure, Coley. Lots and lots of snow." He continues talking about magical things, narrating a whole story about God knows what.

Looking back on these last several weeks, he's come out of a tough phase. For now. Maybe the books are worth it. Or maybe it's just him. Or maybe it's just me or us. Or maybe I should go back to reading Harry Potter or watching more Incredibles with them. Nah, it's probably the experts. Probably.

Our neighbor asked us the other day if the kids were doing any sports. Nope. Well, I guess swimming. That's a sport, they say. I mean, is it? I'm trying to make it so they don't die in water, not that they become the Elastigirl that is Michael Phelps' butterfly crawl.

I finally navigate the maze that is signing up for swim lessons post-move and in the age of COVID. Cary can't make it the first day but I've got the procedures down. I pack up everything the evening before.

"They say to put non-potty-trained kids in two swim diapers but I mean, they're kinda expensive right and I have to take him to the bathroom right before anyway, and they're hard to get off. Should I just do one?"

Jules stares at me for a moment while I stare at the swim bag, then: "I think you should probably just do two."

Aw good kid.

I pick them up from care after work and we make our way through the rigmarole of remembering the street and parking and finding the exact school pool location and access point in this urban suburban island life of yet another new location to our family.

Meander through the path, eyeballing signs. Tell Cole to hurry up. Tell Jules she dropped her goggles. Wait for someone at the desk to take our temperatures. Pray they don't care I don't have masks for the swimmers. (Oops, but I don't remember reading that part!) Hm, where to change, where to change ... I see a single bathroom door I think on the swim deck across the way. But the arrows on the ground don't point us that direction around the pool so here goes, gonna break the painted rule! Walking in front of everyone (seriously no one is looking or cares but it never feels like that)...yell at the kids some more so they don't fall into the pool while looking around. A sign on the bathroom door says no more than one person inside due to COVID. And the door is locked. Be cool, Aly. Continue around the pool. Find a quiet corner. Get them changed.

In the middle of sweating and wondering where I'm gonna take Cole for a potty-break, a (very kind but doesn't seem like it in the heat of the moment) woman with a baby in a stroller comes over and says:

Hiiiii. Just to let you know there's no changing on the swim deck. We just don't want little penises out you know. (barely nervous giggle; in fact kind of a confident giggle)

At this point I want to shove my son's penis in her face.

Jules: "My mom is Aly. What's your name? What's your baby's name?" God fucking bless her but I want to say, Stop! Jules, she's the enemy; we don't like her!

I explain we're new and the bathroom was locked and I came from work and where are we supposed to change? By the end of this inaugural swim lesson, this woman has kindly researched and found out the answers to all my questions, baby in tow, her filling in since someone was out.

But in the heat of the moment it's one more thing.

The kids are blissfully courageous and fun as the lesson kicks off. Ahhh, it's all worth it.

Then mid-lesson Cole screams:

I GOTTA GO POTTY!!!!

I run over, almost slip WHICH IS WHY WE DON'T RUN, grab him from the teenager and try to hit the bathroom again. Woot, unlocked!

Yep, pulling down two swim dipes is great. Scared the kid to pieces. Expected poop but he probably peed in the three minutes it took me to get his diapers and trunks down. I sing him a song while he perches on the toilet seat, miraculously balancing and pushing his penis toward the bowl as we stare at each other in the echo-y bathroom with water on the ground that always feels like urine even though it's pool, shower or ocean water most likely in these places.

I contemplate buying myself Golden Goose sneakers for this. I just made $60 on a freelance news story so I'm 12% there. I really think those sneaks are the best place for my side hustle money. A mom at the lesson has GG sneakers on. Gotta do it. Then my dad can say, you bought sneakers that come dirty? It's like MTV and ripped, distressed jeans all over again.

A post-lesson dip in our weird tiny house indoor/outdoor jacuzzi where you simply sit with your legs straight out on our back patio is just the ticket after these lessons. For them. For us it's after they go to bed sometimes. The kids never balk at being cold getting in the pool for their lessons on a beach evening but the hot tub idea always crops up for them on the way home.

It's a grand time. Until we all get folliculitis. Turns out it takes a bit to get chlorination figured out.

We also change in the van now before swim lessons. Penises and vaginas tucked safely away. Though I did accidentally park in front of a lacrosse practice wrap-up and Jules kept doing an oblivious naked jig. She also heard a boy making fun of his mom and Jules was like, hm, did you hear that? We can do that?

Kid, we can do whatever we want. Go against the arrows to go to the bathroom. Hit a nudist beach. Drive a minivan. Make fun of our parents. Take pride this month and always.

*Post title isn't mine; it's Jerry Seinfeld's scuba diving joke. It's what it's like watching Cole learn how to swim.

Your Name Here.

Jules writes her name with a big, solid period at the end. So sure of herself it seems. I've noticed other kids do this sometimes as they learn to write and learn punctuation. I like the idea of thinking of ourselves with a firm, confident period at the end of who we are.

Potty training a boy, at least my boy, makes me doubt putting a period at the end of my name.

Anyone else experience that rush of adrenaline, ripping your kid out of a swing or off the couch, or out of the bath, at the hint they're pooping while attempting to potty-train? Then trip getting to the portable potty you brought to the park? Then find you're too late and now that you've pulled their pants down, it's worse than you ever imagined?

You really learn what good friends are when your kid poops their pants at your friends' house and you came unprepared.

Cole taught us over the last year he cannot be trusted to stop having fun to hit the bathroom.

We taught Jules about crying wolf. Spoiler alert: A wolf will petrify any kid into avoiding that. We may have forgotten briefly it eats the sheep and had it eat the boy, our voices slowing down to a quiet trail as we realized what we were doing, her eyes wide in the dark before bedtime, us curled around her on top of the covers. Oops.

There are many immature ways I still feel young but I'm nonetheless getting older (and wiser at an eighth of the rate). Old move: I got a pap smear for my birthday last fall. Immature move: I think I might start doing that yearly because I got a few extra "happy birthday's," giving my birth date to check in and so on.

Let's see, I watched Enola and The Queen's Gambit and fell in love with women all over again.

Oh – I got a new, full-time job! It's been great. Rewarding. Uses my skillset. Makes me feel like a grown-up. It also takes about 30 minutes to explain so I'll spare you.

In other literal news, I got the cover of Crown City Magazine again. In honesty, the key is the photo someone more professional took. Also got a Coronavirus at Christmastime feature for the Coronado Times. You can read more about my island Times life here if you're really, really bored – so these are basically some of my favorite people ever and I wish we could have writer get-togethers which they did before COVID and I arrived.

The writing and income life is good for once. If only I could make time to finish that pesky 30-something coming-of-age novel instead of blogging therapeutically.

I still like how I saw this on Twitter and thought, yep.

Anyone else have an Apple Watch and not know what to do with it? If you have one and do know what to do with it, please tell me. I'm tempted to donate it to someone who needs it. I still love you for getting it for my birthday, Cary, don't get me wrong.

Yet it feels like the giant blue pleather planner I bought when I was 12 and pretty much just enjoyed rewriting my homework assignments in my best (still really bad) handwriting and seeing a five dollar bill in the clear plastic pouch inside.

I proceeded to leave it in every store – racing back in a panic – when I put it down to check out an item.

Cary was gone for some training for a couple weeks recently. The C.B. Strike series on HBO MAX and frozen burritos got me though. Also my amazing mom-in-law. Grandparents may not replace your spouse. They may spoil your kids or not know where everything goes, or not know how to communicate every drop-off, pick-up and chore or errand like your more intuitive spouse after nearly 15 years of marriage. But they sure damn do make it easier when you have to change one less diaper, discipline one less time, deal with one less load of dishes or laundry, make one less even simple meal; and they provide that much more love.

Plus I didn't have to clean the microwave that was laughing at and taunting me. I wanted to shed a tear.

Because when your kids are getting in their car seats, talking incessantly or fighting, and you close the car door on their high, penetrating voices. And you pause. Walk as slowly as possible around to your own car door. It's one break. Adding a grandparent is a whole other one.

Then we drive home, Jules asking me about our our poor dead dog, girls marrying girls, me dying, God, heaven, giving birth (seriously all one in day)... And I’m like, I want them to ask and learn and find their way but also I’m just so tired and can’t even explain these things when tip-top. I mess up these conversations so much. Like I don’t have the answers, kid. Just be a nice person. But like tough when you have to be. Ugghh, good luck.

For some wins – what I live for – we watched Earwig and the Witch (also on HBO), the whole weird thing in peace, both kids rapt, me with coffee I made it all the way through without heating up. And we watched Frozen 2 for the millionth time (still so good) one night while they licked clean bowls of popcorn, also peaceful and laughing together in the near darkness because Jules makes it that way for a "special night" and we were close to her birthday – and I realized how much Cole is absorbing these days, talking about the "ice boat" and the "dark sea." And it's all worth it all over again and again.

Us toward the beginning of the pandemic,
getting ice cream and eating it in the traffic median. 😳

These Days Have Teeth

Cole escaped the gate outside our front door. I forgot to latch it in some hubbub, swore he was in our fenced yard, could hear him babbling and banging around. Nope. He had gone 200 feet to the nearest street corner, obsessed with all things vehicular. Oh my good Lord. My heart took the elevator shaft down when I couldn't find him. Springing down the sidewalk, Jules at my heels.

Strangers saved us yet again – but me feeling their hearts and minds, through their eyes, chewing on my soul with sharp, judgmental canines. I thanked profusely, dodged quickly, tried to show I cared the most and shuffled the kids back to the house – embarrassed – wracking my head for the error. Jules? Nope. Me.

The police stopped by (how long had Cole been chilling with these passersby?!). The officers kindly tried to make me feel a little better.

Why did I avoid apologizing to anyone?, I wondered later. Because it's my kid and I'm a good mom? Because I was stretched thin for the longest I've ever been? Because I felt enraged for all the wrongly judged parents, especially moms (let's be honest), especially military spouses or the like, especially these days?

Child Protective Services showed up a few days later, announcing themselves in startling clarity right when I had almost recovered from the lost child incident. My spirit plummeted all over again. My confidence was sapped all over again, trying to find it was probably like getting juice from a prune.

Work hit a distracted standstill, my appetite filled with nerves. Time was lost and a bunch of ache gained. I felt alone alone and like a failure in the HGTV Disneyland that was supposed to be my new home, the village that would help me with my kids and life when Cary isn't able to because he's out helping or preparing to help others.

I felt like the worst parent ever. When I know I'm not. It's a weird dichotomy. These days.

While I waited for a letter that would say the claim was unfounded, I went back near the corner to exchange numbers with a neighbor just in case it helped me feel better, the kids in tow. Jules was eating an apple she wanted to bring and Cole was wearing a fitting Mr. Mischief T-shirt. Make it better for yourself, I thought. And can and did. Notwithstanding a racing heart and worry about cowering to conflict.

In Fallon Jules didn't come inside right away when Cary got home from work one evening. People driving by called the police since apparently the light-glowing house with the front door half open wasn't a clue.

Wulp, I thought that Friday CPS announced themselves at our gate that boasted added security, we officially belong in a garbage can.

Hope no parents have an untidy house, drink alcohol, spank or have junk food around. Because you will feel less than enough even if none of that exists. And your kid will be woken from their nap. And your other kid will all of a sudden clam up. And you better pray it makes for a good wedding toast one day if your rascal survives that long.

I should've taken it more in stride. I should've shook it off sooner. 

Jules actually ran away from us in a Target once, thinking it would be a game while I had visions of someone snatching that tiny little person with the fuzzy hair and running out the front door.

Cole walked straight into the San Diego Bay the other day without his mini lifejacket on, thinking it would be a game too.

I treasure my kids. I'm also surviving them. That's OK.

Loved ones ease my mind. My friends accept me even when I text in weird teen shorthand. Like literally only five years ago my entire message trails were 14-year-old code since I apparently didn't have enough time to write out a complete word (shuttering I think, as a writer). So of course they understand a CPS visit.

One friend listened to me ball into the phone like we were kids again, as the straw had stacked up on top of me. Another said dads get a free pass on mistakes, moms get the authorities. One suggested this will totally be part of a speech at Carroll the Fifth's wedding. This childhood tribe is legit.

Though my buddies are all very different, they seem like they know exactly when to check in on me and how. My military squad can do that too, friends I'm lucky enough to live by again or new ones nearby who don't skip a beat. My heart rippled like a balloon starting to reinflate, slowly healing from all the teeth marks this year is leaving on my soul, many marks much shallower than other people's.

Sometimes I worry I'll have a heart attack or stroke while alone with the kids and they'll find me and panic and not know what to do. Or Cary will be gone and hopefully Jules will know what to do. A heart attack isn't out of realm as the last meal I ordered from Uber Eats left an oiled wood grease stain on a side table (and a chunk out of my wallet).

A bright spot in these months was a job offer. But I turned it down. In our situation, I don't think you could pay me enough these days to do technical writing with still little take-home after the needed nanny or tutor. The second income childcare wash is real precarious these days.

Another bright note: I ordered some scrunchies (so comfy) and a NYC T-shirt (gotta at least wear the dream) to save on shipping when I got sparklers for Jules – after I learned too late Cali doesn't sell fireworks. Thirty dollars later I had saved $10 in shipping. My mind is starting to go.

Cole also burnt his little hand on a sparkler even after a long lecture and with careful eyes. Not careful enough, the voices say. F^@$ off!

Digging through my drawers for other comfortable things to wear every day, I discovered I have several sets of basically yoga pants. Some with pockets! Cell phone-specific pockets! These pants have definitely proven themselves to me and I regret every bad thing I ever thought about them and hope they didn't hear.

I also started the curly girl method toward the beginning of the pandemic. Have you heard of this? Whenever I get low on something in the bathroom or closet, I resort to Instagram to see what items I've saved and might want to try – that aren't one million dollars. Through this I found there's a thing to treat your hair naturally and let its natural wave shine. It's nice but I'm never sure if I should leave the house looking like that.

Good thing because I was all ready to start remote kindergarten, mainly to write about it. Then some go-getter families I'll forever be in debt to started a pod and needed a fifth kid via Facebook. Yet prior to the pod life raft, Jules and I (and Cole) attended a school district parent night via Zoom.

Jules' little head popped over the kitchen bar with me, to meet the amazing teacher and other families whose thought bubbles I would've paid to see. It was so heartfelt but so hilarious. Jules waved, talked, realized no one was responding. She grabbed a toy to show, a banana to eat. Still got bored. Cole pulled me away. Jules and I came back to the screen. We discussed this crazy thing called a mouse.

Their computer experience is going to be so much different than mine was. As well as their nature one.

At the Point Loma Tide Pools Cole said, "Look, Mom!" He had stacked a rectangular rock on top of a larger rectangular rock. "Ah cool!" A few minutes later... "And who's your mother?" Oh crap. A nice older woman (alongside her older man counterpart), who are likely state park volunteers, said they can't have unnatural formations in the park.

"See those rock towers over there?" she said, pointing to the two carefully balanced, small towers of stones perched in holes of the beach cliff wall. "People build them out in nature but they're not natural." She then bent over with her walking stick sprawled to the side and used a hand to awkwardly knock over Cole's very flat tower.

My friend and I proceeded to weirdly tell our adventurous kiddos not to stack rocks.

You never forgive yourself for the real mistakes you make with your kids. But you can move on.

(Plus I love telling that rock story.)

Now I'm going to post this to social media and hopefully make someone else's teeth marks a little less deep.

Butters Made Everything Better

Butters and Jules when we were in Fallon, Nevada.

We laid our pup of 12 years, age 14, to rest last month.

A night or two later I'm hearing this panting. No other way to describe it. The second night we're laying there in bed and Cary says, You hear that? Me: Yes! Cary: She's haunting us. Me: Yes!

After the third night, turns out the other way to describe it is the house across the street doing a sanding project after-hours.

I miss Butters. Of course. Everyone misses a beloved pet who passes. She was always around for me when no one else could be, grumbling quietly as I warmed my feet on her belly. Her only flaws were she could clear a room and she shed – but when you lower your bar for cleanliness, wear a weirdly repellant flight suit or pajamas to work from home, it doesn't matter much and is worth the trade-off.

Cary liked to show me the vacuum cleaner canister, pointing out all his girls' hair filling it up twice in one cleaning. We three were more than worth it we all agreed.

Loved ones kindly took care of our dog when we needed.

We'll probably never own another dog until maybe our kids are out of the house and we need a ridiculous distraction to fawn over.

We killed our first plant – a cactus – but somehow thought we could manage a dog. She did lose a leg. But we gave kids a shot and it's gone OK so far. Cole has almost died multiple times now though. We profusely thank the stranger, acquaintance or friend who reaches out. Sometimes it's Jules who saves the day, my heart and limbs skittering as if I'm living the chapter Gage gets mowed down in Pet Sematary.

The thing about missing something or someone for me is its nostalgia, wanting what's gone. Even if you have Christmas every year or some vacation to look forward to on the regular, no tradition, period of time or new adventure will ever be the same as it was – as it is, as it's happening right now.

When Kobe Bryant died, I thought of a game I went to with Cary and his friends. The two of us stood for a photo in front of where we exited the Staples Center after a ridiculously fun night. Cary was wearing a hideous mustard yellow shirt with Kobe's face screen-printed on it in purple.

I was hugging Cary sideways for the photo. He pushed my arm away so I wouldn't block his precious player's picture. His friend Larry, who was watching as another friend took the photo, said something like, wow, and smiled and laughed contagiously; he made me crack up too.

I remember this every now and then. That night and funny moment that struck me. All of us young, in school to some extent, some in relationships, just going to a game to watch people who are really good at something. Rooting for something. Laughter and excitement. Now it'll always be a little different watching basketball.

We lost people we actually know and love this year too, and I feel old and sad, realizing life does indeed change in a slow, painful blink. As they say, having kids make the days long and the years short. It's nostalgia with a whole new layer or two, laced with tragedy and crisis. Life comes at us hard and fast and we never know absolutely at all what to expect, more of the same or more change, but both equally hard and necessary.

I feel somewhat awkward and worthless scrounging up freelance work as the papers tighten and marketers raise their bars real high at the influx of candidates. I wonder if I'll be attending a virtual kindergarten alongside Jules next year, juggling Cole between stories about the island or a Carson City press release or my next chapter (*questioning eyebrow raise at myself*). But the bouts of confidence, paychecks and random peaceful hour makes keeping on writing in some form worth every penny and bead of sweat.

I went to help a local author with her website and social media. She lives on a boat and it was cozy but not too cozy and smells like the still sea. I felt we spent the time correcting a Squarespace accounting error but looking back, it was nice to just chat about her life. There's more to existing for me I think than a salary or glittering career, perfect home or people in it. It's a chance to giggle and learn lessons that stick.

Yet don't tell me that when Cary's schedule changes and I have to cut work or play short and watch the kids, or go without a food run or tackled project.

We have plants here the previous tenants made great, and now a goal these days is just to keep them alive. OK, I failed on a couple already but Jules helped me replace them. Like actually helped. She doesn't suck at things so much anymore. And we talked about Butters, which felt good. Jules inserts our pup into her stories and memories. She still sleeps with her stuffed version whose name is also Butters. (We once weighed trimming off the front right leg and sewing it up so it would be a true clone.)

We all talk about those who've passed often; it feels right and keeps them alive to us. It's usually a lesson they taught us or a hilarious story. Which makes me think that's what matters. This year and next is going to have some pretty big learning curves and funny stories to look back on.

I still remember babysitting a friend's little guy when Cary was in flight school. Butters stared at me from the couch: You have no idea what you're doing, do you? I still don't and so I miss her watching over us and always will.

She was there cleaning up the food that dropped (and sometimes didn't), or teaching us how to deal with poop and pee and post-beach dog. She was there having Cary and I talk about our days on humid night walks in Florida. She was there walking Jules to sleep with me along the neighborhood river in Japan. She was there as I cried myself to sleep as Jules was crying herself to sleep. She was there cuddled up close while I pumped milk for Cole. She was there when the daylight in our houses turned dark from a tropical storm or typhoon, both of us listening to the rain and the wind, looking outside as the eyes passed over.

She was there when no one else could be and she didn't lift a paw or say a thing.

Watching All The Way Down

Cary actually noticed its greatness first.

See it all from their perspective.
They were there every hilarious step of the way.

The Lion King 1 1/2 is actually really clever. Disney sequels aren't usually up to adult snuff. Jules and I (and Cole) watch endless movies and shows together (including all four of The Descendants*, which I can barely keep up with since I have to jump up constantly apparently for juice, milk, crackers, diaper changes, assistance fluffing pillows, you know).

And I keep observing of some productions: Wow, that was really creative. Now Jules has started saying that too.

"I just want to watch *insert something*. It's really creative. We can cuddle (liltingly)."

She knows me too well now.

I've entered an alternate reality that's beyond binge-watching. We're binge-living.

I love belting out 'Into the Unknown' from Frozen 2. Both my kids hate it when I do it. Which makes me love it more. You know when Tom Hanks shouts "I have made fire!" in Castaway? Well that's how I feel. "I am a parent!"

These are my weeks, probably like other people's weeks:

This is hard.

This is easy.

This is hard.

This is easy.

A year ago I was weighing how we could afford a co-op** in Brooklyn if we went to NYC next – if I somehow got a job there and Cary started flying commercially. Last time I almost sunk into my idea of the East Coast publishing high life, 9/11 hit right after my summer in D.C. I never know whether to feel lucky I missed catastrophe or whether I missed out on some life-altering experience for the better.

One day New York City or Paris or Seattle will get me, starring in my own romcom minus the rom and plus some years to my appearance. For now I'm content (cough cough) and trying to be tough living the comedy of errors that is Jules and Cole.

Turtles All the Way Down art print by Dianne Gage

Jules has taken to snails. Hunting them down and holding them captive, er, taking them as pets. Cole found one that had escaped – much to Jules' glee – then 20 minutes later he accidentally stepped on it and cracked its shell – much to her despair. She found an empty snail shell in our yard (read: a long-dead snail's shell) and somehow got the new, yet traumatized, snail inside it. Needless to say it didn't make it.

Jules often says when she grows up she wants to live in Fallon, Banana (she means Nevada). It has proven more successful than Coronado to her. Touché. She doesn't fully understand yet the beaches and endless sidewalks, as well as only remembers the going-places, the reservoir and pre-school friends and teachers. We used to go to this great Reno zoo and this supposedly breathtaking San Diego zoo has proven a letdown. Jules' first world problems are real AF.

When I get tired of watching with them, I've taken to reading alongside them – immersive mysteries and YA novels and a negotiating book or any other books my dad sends me.

I take endless pictures of the kids when we're not endlessly watching, which makes me look like a better mom than I am.

I have more time to blog now.

Work hours are dwindling as I was between jobs yet again since I decided to take a news desk job on the brink of a pandemic. I also bought a home in 2006. I make such good choices sometimes.

But slowing down to almost a standstill – when not getting up and down off the friggin' couch or scrambling to write a press release during naptime or movietime – hasn't been all bad.

"At some point in life the world's beauty becomes enough. You don't need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough. No record of it needs to be kept and you don't need someone to share it with or tell it to. When that happens – that letting go – you let go because you can."

—Toni Morrison, Tar Baby, 1981 (or since I'm bearing all, I really read this in John Green's Turtles All the Way Down – recommended)

*On Netflix and 'Under the Sea' is a Descendants short story. Woot woot.
**The HOA will getcha.