The story of us part I-can't-remember

This is the story of how 3 words changed my life and how I gave away a precious item to someone who believes in pirates.

Item: my mothers jewelry box

Nemesis: my sister

Background: it's been many years since my mother decided to tell us that she wanted to be rid of her jewelry box. A handsome deep brown box with carefully laid joints and rivets. Curved on the top with a delicate latch holding tight to its contents.

My sister, 6 years my younger, and I have NOT fought since young children with the exception of one butt touching incident many years ago (a story for another time). This silent battle for the right to claim the sacred box of our childhood has raged for so long I don't know if my timelines are correct or of we had laid a predatory claim long before we knew there was a claim to be laid. The reasons why we needed or deserved the box year after year, holiday after holiday would fall on my mother and her wisdom to decide. Her answer was always the same, no one gets the box until You agree who gets the box.

Then came tonight. As I was leaving my moms house she recanted her least conversation with my sister.

My sister had an idea - give me the box and her my mothers wedding ring. Which was a no go because my stepdad is heir to that loom. Mom countered with the idea that she would give it to my brother and end this once and for all. 

That's when it happened. Mom said " your sister has an idea of what to do with the pirate box".

the pirate box

And I said "she can have it".

And just like that, she could. Because she thinks it's a pirate box, and my brother would think nothing of it at all. My sister thinks its treasure, and it is. But it's so much more, it's never been about the box. It's never been about who gets this piece of my mothers life, her late 20s, her single motherhood. Her time of knowing nothing and learning everything there is to know about the 3 most important humans in the world. 

It's about the piece of her that was just her. It's about the part of my mom that wasn't a mom at all. It's the girl who stowed away treasure, who showed her treasure to 2 little girls, who shared her secrets, who entrusted us with the things all little girls think make you a woman. 

It's the place our cloak pins from SCA were carefully tucked away, it's the home of the dragon cuff and the moonstone earrings. It's plant toad's winter home and dress up afternoons. It's where we snuck pieces of mom to take with us on our journey. It's where teenage usses became ladies. It's years of love worn into the lining from our hands carefully separating chains and findings. It's the tube of lipstick she never really wore except that one time, and a stray marble. Even this box, with all those things gone on to other adventures is "don't forget to put the bottle on the door". 

And that is how I chose to give the most prized possession of our inheritance to my sister, after years of saying "me or no one". Because I have all those things, locked up tight in my soul, and they will never go away. And I have my own box, a beautiful handmade wooden box from Iraq, that holds my secrets. My mothers first engagement ring, my favorite necklace made by a dear friend, the earrings  wore on my first day of work at multiple places and the locket my husband gave me for my anniversary. I have my own afternoons, and stealthy teenage thefts of my cool Polaroid camera earrings. 

And that is the story of how in an instant of what I'm sure is insanity I relinquished my claim to a small wooden box I'd fought for 15 years to obtain. 

Because it's not about my sister being my moms favorite (which she isn't, mom loves us all the same and would give heaven and earth for each of us), it's about her being MY favorite (also my only, sister, that is) And knowing that things are just reminders of people. Just shadows of the past, my brain can remember all those things, those moments, those smiles, without the box. But to my sister, it's a pirate treasure, and maybe a new adventure, and no one loves and adventure more than me.

Awkward conversations no one really wants to have

While I am certain that there are a million awkward things moms and dads will have to talk to their little boys about I don't actually have one so I am sticking to what I know. Awkward, and sometimes frustrating conversations with tween to teenage girls. Odd area of expertise, but since I now have a 12 going on 40 year old soon to be teenager I have been through many an awkward conversation.

Oh young one, stay small forever!

I would like to take the time here to say THANK YOU to my wonderful mother who can clearly see the future and predicted every single one of these conversations with her the fictional granddaughter by announcing "Someday you will have a daughter, and I hope she is just like you" curses. I am most definitely getting EXACTLY what I deserve.

If you have a darling daughter who has not yet reached the tween - teen years yet. Formulate your plan of attack carefully. These things come in stages, creeping up on you in seemingly harmless conversations and will one day culminate in completely awkward and frustrating ways.

Trust me on this.

7YO: Mom ,why are there razors in the shower? I mean, who uses them? and for what?
Me: Well, they are to shave my legs... and armpits.
7YO: You have hair in your ARMPITS
Me: No, I shave it
7YO: GROSS
ME: Yes it is, and itchy, which is why I shave it.
7YO: Sooooooo....
Me: Yes, you will grow hair in your armpits
7YO: Do I have to shave it?
Me: Well, not if you dont want to, but it might get itchy... and hot and sweaty and smelly (neglected to mention here that either way it will probubly be all those things)... on the other hand once you start shaving it, you can't really stop, because it itches
7YO: You just said it would be itchy if I didn't shave it
Me: I know, but I actually don't remember what it is like to have hair there so I could be lying about that part.

A few years later...

9YO: When do I have to start shaving my armpits?
Me: Ummmm, I'm not sure I really want you playing with razors yet... why? do you have hair in your armpits?
9YO: Maybe
Me: Let me see
9YO: NO, thats weird...
Me: Weirder than asking me when you need to start shaving it?
I can see that this conversation is going nowhere anyway so why not play along right? Also, somewhere in the back of my brain I am realizing that I am actually going to have to show my 9YO how to actually USE a razor at some point in her life, regardless if that time is today or not. Now THAT is weird.
9YO: (shows the 2.5 hairs in her armpit) ?
Me: Not yet
9YO: Wheew... thats good, because I just wanted to make sure no one could tell.


10YO: Mom, can you get me my own razors?
Me: For what?
10YO: To shave with
Me: To shave what with?
10YO: Hair
at this point I realize that we have reached THAT stage. Where EVERY. SINGLE. CONVERSATION. is like getting a bikini wax, they make no sense whatsoever and are very painful to get through no matter how long they last.
Me: I am going to jump right in and say this is for legs and armpits, and yes I can get you your own, and please do not TOUCH my razors ever, ever, ever, because it's just gross... and I guess I will have to show you how to use one so you don't cut yourself.
I am now having flashbacks to the day I decided that I had waited long enough to shave and asked my best friend (who had never shaved before) to come and sit in the bathroom with me while I tried to shave my legs for the first time, even after my mom said NO. It was a few liters short of a bloodbath thanks to neither one of us even contemplating the use of soapy lather.
10YO: Ummmm... that might be weird
Me: Trust me hon, we are in for much weirder conversations than this. Wait till you have to ask me to buy pads and tampons and Noxzema.
10YO: Huh?

It is at this point in my life, that something struck me. I was going to have to buy pads, and tampons and Noxzema. It also occurred to me that I might actually have to explain all the gross little details about how to actually use these things (except for the Noxzema which is pretty much like shampoo for your face and therefore self explanatory).

Awkward.

This is why I am glad I thought of these things back then. You will be too. Don't wait until doomsday to buy pads and explain how they work. TRUST me you will be glad she knows just what to do, and she will be much less embarrassed about telling you she actually needs some of her own.

The Story of Us: Part 4 Tragedy in my small town

There is no point in retelling a story that someone else has already lent lovely words to, so I will instead give my reflection to the events of the past 3 days.

Recap: A wonderful woman, mother and teacher was kidnapped and murdered, leaving behind a beautiful 2 YO boy. Full story HERE courtesy of ABC News.

My Facebook feed has been difficult to look at the last few days to say the least. As you all know I am a lover of words and these two shining beacons have made it into the copy, paste, save hall of fame for me today:

The Forward Thinker 's touching article and Pastor Becca's words of wisdom. You all know I am not a religious person by any means, but I happened to have grown up with Pastor Becca my whole life, shared more bread and juice with her than many of her followers have and I can't say I believe there is a more decent and kind person from my past that I trust with my heart this day, so take it from an atheist, the blog post is more than worth the read (she is also quite funny and most of her blog posts are extremely entertaining).

and that sentiment was resounded by many on my comment wall, then a table turned, almost as swift as the grief had come so did the certainty of what we needed to do:

and today? after a restless night, I have wiped away my tears, but not the heartache just yet, and say this

The Kingdom is in mourning, but we will soon rise up and hunt for the darkness that did this and shine the light of justice until no shadow is left behind. Maybe the evil doer in our scenario believed us, Notheast Kingdom, small town, nobodies to be the meek, but if that old saying is true? We will inherit this earth and we reclaim it NOW.

The Story of Us, Part 4

After a really great visit with a good friend this weekend I have been doing some thinking about my life, or more appropriately liveS.

We had some pretty deep conversation, about pretty much everything (and some pretty shallow conversation too). I love catching up with friends, not as much as actually being able to hang out with them all the time, but we do what we can.

Anyway, as I embarked on my hour and a half drive back home my first thought was "I feel like I have lived 5 completely separate lives". I know weird right, but think about it...

1. I was a kid, I had family and grew a bit, started school met some people I have no idea who they even are now.

2. I started school, grew a bit, made some friends, had some adults in my life, did homework. I never see these people and don't really remember a whole lot about them now either.

3. I began  middle school. I met some real friends, talked, learned to use the phone, grew a bit, made my mom regret I learned out to use a phone, people passed in and out teachers, adults, coaches what not. I have no idea what these people are doing now.

4. I went to high school, I made some mistakes, made some real friends, learned stuff, dressed funny, learned to drive and made some real memories. I had TIMES people.

5. I started real life, kept a few friends, lost touch of almost all of those high school people, met my family, grew, got jobs, met friends, made connections, changed, had babies, got married, started a blog.. blah blah..

Each one of these "ME's" feel so separate now... like they could have been different lives completely from the one I am living now. It feels weird...

I may be on the verge of an existential crisis...

The Story of Us: Part 3

I have no idea how many parts this story is going to have, and just to clarify this is the story of me and my people and my life so far. My memories, however scattered, and the great joy and terrible beauty my life has brought me. It may also contain great sorrow and pain, but life is like that sometimes.

There was a moment, a terrifyingly LONG moment when I was a child, around 8 I think, when I got into my bed and sitting on my pillow was the most GIGANTIC grey spider I had ever seen in my life.

I had never really been fond of spiders, it's something about their long spindly legs, like they could reach out and grab up my whole existence with them. The house I lived in then had a circular driveway, and a little front porch that was literally crawling with the beasts.

I had never really been up close to a spider before that (that I remember anyway). Upon arriving home on any given summery afternoon I would make sure I had a tight grip on my items and a clear path to the door and I would run full tilt, head down into the door and pry it open as fast as possible to get into the house. Safely inside the front hall I would go about my business of getting an afternoon snack or whatever was on the docket for the afternoon. Never thinking about them again, until that day.

That day my brain decided it would think that there was NOTHING more scary in this whole wide universe than a spider. It would decide to fill me with dread even thinking about them. It would take a very long time to get to sleep that night, and for many nights after.

As the years wore on, I would learn to tolerate the eight legged freaks so long as they stayed at a distance, never moving. When the little came along, the hubbs said "You better learn not to screech like a banshee or your kids are going to be scared of them too". I have tried, believe me friends, I have TRIED. For the hubbs, for the kids, but sometimes, the fear gets the better of me.

The Story of Us: Part 2

Dear Santa,

32 years ago my life began.

27 years ago my brother was born.

26 years ago my sister was born.

13 years ago I met and fell in love with my husband.

12 years ago I became a mom.

3 years ago my youngest daughter was born.

I have counted these years in smiles and laughter, in tears and sorrow.

I have counted these years in jealousy and vanity, in selflessness and humility.

I am so lucky to have spent my life being loved.

For Christmas this year, I wish for all those who I have known, and those I will never know, to know love in some small way. To know family in some small way. To understand the years counted mean nothing without the moments lived in joy.

Love, Me

The story of us, part 1

Up in the back bedroom in my moms house there is a huge walk-in closet filled with my sister's clothes, my vintage typewriter, tons of shoes, a bookshelf and 3 large avon delivery boxes.

Inside those boxes are the sparking gems of childhood. Every wonderful thing my brother, sister and I ever made when we were little. The contents of those boxes have changed over the years, we pruned and purged things as we were growing up, carefully curating our childhood with only the best of the best. Journals, projects, papers, photos, drawings, school projects, momentos. Every few years mom will ask us if we want to save them, we always answer YES. It may be a little selfish to keep boxes of stuff we hardly ever look at, taking up valuable storage space, but those boxes are so much more than a bunch of stuff.

They are the monarch butterfly life cycle projects that taught us how to look at the world with wonder. To marvel at nature and the amazing things that happen without any human help at all.

They are the books we wrote in second grade writers workshop, that taught us how to take the vastness of our imaginations and share it with others. To use words to describe our hopes and dreams to the world, and ourselves.

They are the baggies of streamers and ticket stubs saved to remind us of the dances, concerts and plays. Social milestones that helped to shape our ideas of love, friendship and sometimes heartbreak.

My mom was a very clever lady, she knew the vast amount of total junk every kid creates. She understood that not every A+ spelling test from 3rd to 7th grade could be saved. These boxes were a stroke of pure genius. Each of us only got one box, and the cover had to fit on. We knew we had to be careful with our choices of what to keep and what to throw away. We had to choose our moments carefully.

Thank you mom, for always teaching us to look for the best in things and to see the extraordinary in the mundane.

The Story Of Us .5: The Spooky Old Tree

Have you ever read this:

(sorry for the terrible quality of this pic)

When I was a little girl I LOVED this book, it was on the top of my 'read-this-till-you-want-to-kill-me-for-making-you-read-it-a-million-times- book list. The coolest part (and scariest as a kid) is that we have a Spooky Old Tree. As a child my mom would tell me it was THE Spooky Old Tree and to this day, that's what I have always called it.

My brother and sister and I would say it EVERY time we drove past the tree.

2 years ago I moved just a house away from the Spooky Old Tree, and I read my kids the story of the Spooky Old Tree, and walked them down the road, late at night to see it in all it's Spooky Glory.

Today, I got up, made some coffee and went out to enjoy the morning air.

I walked to the end of the drive to say Hi to the neighbors, who were reading the paper on their front yard. and saw this:

It didn't seem real at first. Was there really a HUGE piece of the Spooky Old Tree on the ground?

Broken

Sad

Alone

I called my mom right away and told her what had happened and she got it exactly right

"It's like all the little pieces of our childhood are going away"

My tummy felt a little sick, and I knew she was right.

It was a hundred years of history on the ground, gone.

"They'll be taking the whole tree down soon, I'm sure" she continued.

I felt my whole body get scared.

I knew it would happen, like the trees in the park across the street, when they started to shed their branches from age and disease.

The landscape of my childhood was disappearing.

It was kind of like Peter Pan getting his kiss from Wendy, nothing would be the same.

Maybe I'm being a little dramatic, it is just a tree right?

But it's NOT just a tree.

It's THE Spooky Old Tree,

it's stories before bed, and getting ticked in, and "don't forget to put the bottle on the door" (that's a quote for another post I think).

It's just one more CHANGE to get used to, it's one more part of my history in this small town that has made me who I am.

I will miss you Spooky Old Tree.