With Your Feet in the Air

My friends, my reader. Last year kicked my ass. My former dance teacher, two of my uncles, and my grandmother all died of cancer. My best-ever-in-my-life-this-is-the-ONE relationship fell apart and together and apart in a most painful way (because I am overly optimistic, and romantic, and stupid, and stubborn. I have only myself to blame, really). My big kid octopussed herself to my leg every day before kindergarten for a couple of months, came out of the terror to triumph, and then abruptly became a shivering mass of anxiety at school again for a few months after that. My little one became terrified of HER school. The girls' dad got arrested, got broke, got broke down cars, got up late for Christmas, refused to see the girls in spite of the court papers, refused to pay child support, all the sordid Jerry Springer shit, etc etc etc etc. My mother revealed some upsetting news to me after an upsetting vacation with her and my dad, and effectively made my workplace a very uncomfortable place. Four of my chickens got eaten by a fox. My tomatoes got blight. My drier broke.

None of this is chronological, sorry, or particularly tragic, truly. Sick people died. A rebound relationship failed. Stupid baby daddy gonna be stupid, etc. Stupid chickens gonna get et. Secondhand drier gonna break. There are worse things. I know.

It was just one of those YEARS, you know.

I have opened Blogger a million times with a blog post on my mind and all that would come to mind is OW FUCK THIS ALL SUCKS WHY WOULD YOU EVEN WRITE ABOUT THIS IT SUCKS AND OTHER PEOPLE'S SUCKAGE IS BORING. And, thus, over a year passed since my last post. Sorry, anyone who has visited here! Hope you enjoyed the old content! No I don't want to learn more about penis enlargement kthanxbai!

In September, between deaths & parenting & relationship dramas, I auditioned for the Nutcracker Burlesque again. Folks, behold your most-certainly-oldest-ever Clara:                                                                                                                                                  

   

A week or so before auditions, I had a flash, a vision of sorts: me, front and center-stage, audience in front of me cheering, some standing, the cast spread out behind me hooting and hollering. I had my hands over my heart and tears in my eyes and I was exhausted and grateful. It felt very real and I honestly wasn't surprised when I got the news that I would play the lead. I already knew. Fucking weird, right?

And a couple of days after this photo was taken, that exact scene played out for real. I was exhausted, heart-sore and body-sore. Off-stage, life had been overwhelming, sad, and cold. I felt at a distance from my kids, my family, my friends, hopeless about a lot of things. No one that really mattered to me came to see the show, this manifestation of so much effort and time and one of my proudest accomplishments. But still, every night I gave my whole self to that largely anonymous audience. I flirted and joked and and remembered all my choreography and my funny bits hit and my lifts all worked. There I was, at the last show. I had done it. I did my fucking best, and my best was really, actually, great. Seven shows, 15 weeks, hours and hours and hours of work. The audience ALL stood up and cheered. I felt my castmates behind me, cheering and smiling and crying with joy. I had my hands over my heart and tears in my eyes and I was grateful.

Thank you my legs, thank you my babysitter, thank you my castmates, thank you my director. Thank you, cheering audience. Thank you, flexible job that allowed me to spend time with my grandmother in her last week on earth and take naps during performance weeks. Thank you, flu shot, for keeping us mostly well. Thank you, chicken hatchery, for my sweet new flock. Thank you, present moment. Thank you, everything, like a fucking Alanis Morrissette song. 

Predictably, I had a low period after the show. All of the mourning that I'd held off, all at once. Sweatpants and pizza and ice cream and Netflix and super cranky parenting. I tried to get back into dating, but got the dreads and shut that down before I even started. I mostly stopped exercising. The snow kept piling up and up and up and it was cold and dark and I was just dragging myself along. I took myself to Brooklyn, and the girls to Florida, in an attempt to distract myself from my self-pity party. I had some lovely moments but was in a cloud. I pulled in, trying to reconnect with myself, my girls, my house. And I rested. I needed rest. I never rest. But I couldn't help it, this time.

Really, I'm just barely sort of coming out of it. I don't quite feel like myself yet. Setting my attention back on this blog, on writing in general, is part of my prescription. I'm going to date again (UGH FUCK WHY DO I HAAAAVE TOOOOO), so you'll hear about that. I'm going to work through missing my grandmother, so you'll hear about that. I'm going to fall back in love with my kids and my house and my body, so you'll hear about that. I'm going to get over my fucking self and get out of my own way, so you'll hear about THAT. It's gonna be a self-help party up in this joint.

So! Sorry about the new content! You don't have to keep reading. But I discover, again and again, that I have to keep writing. I hope last year didn't suck for you. But if it did, come here. Tell me all about it. Let's get better together.

xoxo, A

Wheels

My paternal grandparents got married when my grandmother was 18 and my grandfather was 28. Their marriage lasted, as was standard, until both of them died, two years apart, nearly 70 years later. They lived, until it was impractical, on a small farm in a small town in rural Maine. My grandmother was elected town clerk after stints as school lunch lady and post-office counter clerk -- I remember standing in awe in their parlor as she presided over the wedding of two young people who had put on their very best clothes for the occasion. They knew absolutely everyone in town and all the towns around, though they were not social. But still, once they took me and my brother to a Guy Fawkes party and I met one of Maine's slightly famous (more aptly, infamous) authors. I was impressed, but my grandmother was not, as the writer was a slattern and overly dramatic (her words). They had two sons, barely two years apart, both popular athletes who played football in college and went on to start their own businesses and marry pretty, petite women. My uncle's wife killed herself when my three cousins were very small. My grandparents took in my uncle and my cousins until he was ready to stand on his own again. My uncle and his second wife took in my grandparents when they became unable to keep up their own house.

Never once did I hear my grandmother complain about her circumstances, which to me, as an arrogant young person, looked circumscribed. I thought that my grandmother was missing out on the world: she only ever traveled once to Boston, and once to Washington D.C., in her entire life. I wanted bigger and better and more and moved to bigger and better and more cities, traveled to Europe, had dumb misadventures, and grand-ish true adventures, never got married, bought an old farmhouse on the edge of a small city, and had two children out of wedlock, and though I am sure my grandmother must have had opinions or judgments about my life, which looked nothing like any life she ever knew, she never once offered any. She was unfailingly supportive and proud of all of us cousins (her one trip to Boston was for my college graduation) but of course I didn't think she would understand anything about me and my life so after my tween years I stopped telling her anything of any import.

My grandfather passed away the day after Christmas, almost 6 years ago now. He told my grandmother he was tired, laid down in his twin bed next to hers, and never woke up. His memorial service was very well attended. In the spring following, we had a family gathering in the tiny rustic graveyard where that side of the family lies. I remember being utterly stunned when my grandmother wailed over my grandfather's gravestone. They'd had a full lifetime together after all, one which I imagined to be fond, but not overly. Lots of hard work, and probably very not romantic. But there she was, in her nineties, keening like you'd see in a movie with young lovers were separated by death or other dire circumstance, and my dad and uncle had to hold her by her arms so she would not fall down. Suddenly a rush of memories came flooding back to me: the way my grandfather had always fondly chided my grandmother about bustling around the kitchen while we were all sitting down and eating. The beautiful and impractical flowers he tended so she could cut them for her vases around the house. The way he never failed to thank her for the delicious meals she cooked day in and day out. The way she always asked if he could hear the baseball game, which would remind him to turn up his hearing aid. The way she slept through years of his tremendous snoring and while they did have separate beds, they never once had separate rooms. There was never any outward drama, or noisy fuss. I never once heard a raised voice in that house.

That was a whole life together.

The weekend I asked Tim to leave my house, a very good friend of mine was in town. My friend came over a couple of nights into my fresh single parenthood bearing a bottle of Jack Daniels and three pints of Ben and Jerry's. I was grateful for the gesture but also thought that I very much needed to keep my wits about me. I had no idea what my next move would be, had lost my voice, and had allowed myself to cry exactly once for about 5 minutes, when I was in the shower, after I put the girls to bed. I decided I didn't need numbing. I didn't need crying. Somehow I would forge ahead without all of the dramatics that had marked every single breakup or disappointment in my life, previously. And so I have done, to a large extent. That impulse feels right, still.

What I mourn now, during any slivers of time in that kind of head-space, is not the particular man or that particular relationship. As I have mentioned (repeatedly, I know; sort of like someone saying "so-and-so, my husband" in the weeks after the wedding, to get used to it), I am happy with my life right now and looking forward to the next chapter. But damned if I am not sometimes bummed out that I will not have a whole life together like my grandparents did. Sometimes I wonder if I should have married my high school boyfriend, as we were planning, and just taken the lumps, or maybe I should have at least taken the leap with SOME one SOME time during all of my gallivanting. It's easy to be revisionist, and I know all of my choices afford me the opportunity to be (hopefully) a better parent and (hopefully) a better partner in the future. The girls would not exist as they are in any of my alternate universes and that is a sad thought. But I do wonder: what choices will they make, or not make, once they learn about the turns of my life? My life and my choices were largely reactionary, based on wanting MORE than my grandmother, MORE than my mother -- who never really hid her resentment that she had married so young and mothered so young. MORE than so many of my classmates, who never left Maine, or even my hometown. What will my girl's antidotes be, for having a mother who had children after so much MORE? What is the antidote for not even being able to remember your parents living under the same roof?

Tuesday night in yoga class, while I was starting to get into full wheel along with the rest of the class, the teacher came over and put a strap behind my shoulder blades and lifted up and forward. I felt my chest expand, almost painfully, and my feet almost left the floor. I am only just newly able to get into full wheel again. Before I left Brooklyn, before I met Tim, before I had my babies, I loved full wheel. The pose is open and expansive and somehow in these intervening years I collapsed in on myself and lost the knack for it. I let myself get mired in self-pity, depression, pettiness (I changed the last three diapers/you went out the last two Saturdays) and forgot: how open, how expansive, the sweep of a whole life. How wonderful and precious to have lived a whole life together. Maybe I won't have that.  Maybe my girls won't. Maybe they will. And after the pose is done and the teacher moves away to the next student I lie on my mat, with my heart almost painfully open, and think of my grandparents, and tears roll down my face. And then I get up and and shower off the tears and sweat and two days later write it all down without knowing, really, how to end. Probably because it isn't an end.

xoxo, A

Holy Nights, or, ALL YOUR IBUPROFEN ARE BELONG TO US

It all started because I am dumb about technology. No, wait. It started before that. While I was gestating Little A., so many moons ago, I worked for a funny little nonprofit. My officemate, the super sweet Celeste, mentioned this funny little show one of her friends was performing in. My ears perked up, because, as I have mentioned before, performing dance is in my all-time top-ten favorite things to do. But I was pregnant and new in town and and and and...the timing was wrong. I couldn't even go SEE the show because the timing was wrong. And then my life got a little more complicated. And then I got pregnant again and my life got a lot more complicated. And I resigned myself to never doing a lot of things that I might have always wanted to do. And I missed myself, but not critically. And and and. 

Fast forward to this summer. This summer when everything went all to pieces but even the tiniest little pieces, stuck back together with scotch tape and sometimes just scotch, are so much better than the whole used to be. A dear friend mentioned the show again, somehow, in passing. Maybe while we were at the gym, or at the playground. Between diaper changes and tantrum management, the show stuck in my head this time. I am in pretty good shape, I thought. I should maybe just start taking dance classes again, I thought. And then one night, while scrolling around Facebook on my phone, I sorta-kinda accidentally pushed this check-mark icon next to an audition announcement (I thought it was to open the event page). And a couple of friends noticed and "liked" that I was going to go. And then other friends asked, "Are you really going to go?" What the hell, I'll go, I thought.

AND SO. I got cast, you guys. I am IN that funny little show. Except it's not little. Every weekend between now and Christmas I am in rehearsals. Usually both days of the weekend. Usually for at least two hours. And then there are SEVEN shows over two weekends and our family calendar looks INSANE. Of course I have the guilts for leaving the girls for all those hours, but in the grand scheme of things? Nearly all of that time, they will be with their dad. And that is really good. And it is just a few weekends out of an entire year and our lifetimes. Yes, I am crazy for even thinking of it, but AWAY WE GO.

Last weekend was the first weekend of rehearsals. This week, I bought an extra giant bottle of ibuprofen and only today, 4 days later, have I regained pain-free function of my neck (turns out burlesque involves a lot of hair-whipping. Who knew?). But leaving that rehearsal on Sunday afternoon was the best. I felt like...myself. The myself I ignored for years. The myself I hope someday my girls will tell each other old familiar stories about, with at least a small amount of pride and self-recognition. Because myself is kind of grabbing life by the balls right now. Myself: taking care of business and having fun. What a concept, huh? I'm not saying it's perfect: my house is smells funny and the girls' hair is always a mess and we are probably going to have grilled cheese sandwiches AGAIN tonight. But we are also having a lot of fun, and I am keeping an eagle eye on everyone's emotional well-being and who cares if the socks don't match. We are all sleeping, eating, and growing.

So, again, I bring you the profoundest-blogger life lesson: JUST DO THINGS. I mean, I am the first person in history to realize this, right? WHERE IS MY GODDAMN BOOK DEAL.

xoxo,
A

Lather Rinse Repeat

Last night I had an out-of-body experience. I floated up to the ceiling of Little A's room and saw myself grab and rip to shreds a magazine. Not just any magazine, no, but her most favorite magazine in the whole wide world. It was 8:02 pm. It was hot as fuck. She was tired. I was tired. She had just deliberately spit on the floor, after 45 minutes of outrageously wild behavior -- running away, crying, laughing hysterically while kicking her legs every which way including at my face, throwing books, and so very much SHRIEKING, in the tub and in the baby's room and in her room and right next to me, directly into my ear, as I sat at the top of the stairs frantically trying to collect myself and wondering what the fuck do I do now and can I maybe just go out onto the deck and come back in 30 minutes -- and it was my very last straw. We both heard the glob of spit hit the floor and she looked at me with mingled dread and defiance and I didn't say a word. I exited my body, which slowly got up from her bed where I had been trying to just talk to her or get her to breathe or somehow get things back under control and walked directly to the magazine and picked it up and ripped and ripped and ripped. And she wailed and tried to punch me and said I was the worst mother in the world and that I hated her and that she hated me. And I wanted to wail and I felt like the worst mother in the world and I hated myself. And I spiraled back down into myself and sat next to her and held her still-small fists and just said this is out of control, we have to get it under control. I love you and could never hate you. I should not have ripped your magazine. This is out of control. We have to get it under control. I love you and could never hate you. Over and over, a chanted prayer/wish/mantra. And we did get it under control. And I should not have ripped her magazine, and she should not have shrieked in my ear. And we talked about all the scary feelings we were both feeling in that moment. And we talked about how many changes we've been through in the past few weeks. She misses her dad being around, she misses her old teacher at school, and she doesn't like her new teacher, and her cousin doesn't want to hug her at school. Big hurts and little hurts and they all fucking hurt. And I should not have ripped her magazine. I absorbed all of her hurt sobs into my body and they have settled somewhere around my heart and there they sit, so heavy.

After 15 minutes of talking and crying we went back into her sister's room (where the AC unit is) and I made her a special nest next to where I was going to sleep and we laid down together and I rubbed her back until she fell asleep. And then, finally, lying on an improvised bed between her and her sister in the dark and cool room, I cried too. Silent, guilty, stinging tears.

My oldest girl. So much like me, and so mysterious in the way any other person is. I love her with every cell of my body and her very existence fills me with joy and we dance together and play and joke and most hours are delightful but also she makes me more angry than anyone I have ever known. Since our last breakdown/breakthrough her behavior has changed. She is still excellent at school but every other night or so is a struggle. Last night was extreme, really extreme, and just after she fell asleep the skies opened and a thunderstorm rolled through just to prove the point. Thanks, Universe. I get the message. She is not protecting me anymore, I think. She is just at one of those ages, I think. She is processing the separation, I think.

This is hard and weird, guys. I am 100% convinced things will be better because of the changes I affected to our family. And in so many ways, they already are. The knot of tension and uncertainty that lived in my chest for the past two years has disappeared for one. It has been replaced by other knots, but they are MY knots and I know how to work on that shit. We are eating better and dancing and singing and doing more fun stuff. There is less stress in the house, period. We just have to get past this hard part to get to really really good but I also have to get cozy with the notion that the hard part might last a little longer than I was expecting because there are more agendas at work than just mine. And my guiding philosophy of keep on movin, don't stop, might not work for everyone in our little family. I have to just stop and be with first baby, this tough cookie, this spitter, this cuddler, and singer and painter and dancer, right where she is. And I have to just stop and be with her sister, my last baby, our 5-second tantrum-er, and goofball, and toothbrush-obsessor, right where she is. And I also have to just stop and be with me, single mother, don't wanna to go to sleep because this is my time-er, story-teller, hugger, comfort-giver, magazine-ripper, right where I am. I just need to be nice to all of us, including me. I am not letting myself off the hook for that asshole move, but by god I am going to go out tonight and allow myself to recharge so that particular brand of assholery will not reoccur.

We are here: facing off and shouting threats and throwing our plates to the floor and pulling hair and in time out. We are here: going to the beach and having cupcakes and wearing princess dresses and painting toenails and having breakfast dance parties. We are here.

xoxo, A

Single and Ready to Ming...errnevermindkthaxbai!

In a fit of busting through to the new-normal let's just GO so very typical me-ness, I set up an online dating profile. While no stranger to online dating, having gone through a year or so of it when single in Brooklyn...well, now, yeah, it's different. Of course it is. But really. So so very different.

Back in my day--imagine this said with my one arthritis-crooked finger pointed just past your head, and a wistful look in my crow's-footed eye--a likely fella would look at your profile, read it (the whole thing, tl;dr didn't exist in those days), write a charming email, and await your equally charming reply. I had a rule of three - if I was not asked on a date within 3 exchanges, on to the next candidate! and I had some great dates, and some not-so-great-but-pretty-good-stories-dates, and overall it was a fun supplement to meeting people organically (drunk), while out with friends (drunk), at your local pub (drunk).

Well, now, our society's taste for instant gratification means that dudes can 1. See when I am logged onto said dating site, 2. See when I have looked at their profile 3. Instant message me through the dating site.

Argh. This pretty much removes all the pen-pal charm from the process, and makes it into this high-intensity speed dating style crapshoot. I've had fellows try to guilt me into replying to their (boring) emails by pointing out that I had looked at their profile - the equivalent to a creepo dude continuing to hit on you because you walked past his chair on the way to the bathroom. One guy kept insisting don't be shy! chat! c'mon! during the 30 seconds I was online at 11 pm one Wednesday. ELEVEN PM. Anyone with half a brain knows a mom is not going to be up for witty repartee at 11 pm on a weeknight. And then for his stunning death-blow, he sent me a frowny-face emoticon to close our non-correspondence. WHAT A FROWNY FACE I CAN'T EVEN.

That being said I have had some genuinely nice interactions and one super hilarious chat session, and have been asked on a few dates by guys I would actually consider dating! I'm a wicked catch, yessah!

Here in my neck of the woods, eligible bachelors way, way outnumber awesome single ladies, by a lot. This is very different from NYC, where the rare single man (who was not totally insane, narcissistic, immature, or just plain weird) was a jewel fought over by dozens of single ladies who would totally cut a bitch to get on that. Just like searching for an apartment or a job, competition was fierce, and fearsome. Most of the girls had Brazilians and great jobs and at least two degrees and were size less-than-zero. I did more than ok, under the circumstances, but it got tiring, being one of way too many boxes of cereal under the shockingly toddler-like male gaze of the average NYC bachelor. Here, the dudes are like hey you have teeth and hair and stuff I will totally date you! Which is slightly overwhelming, especially when I notice their profiles claim they neither have nor want children or are only interested in the younger demographic.

Not to mention, now there are dudes like "pee4urbutt" and "dominantwhore" out there. WHAT PEE4URBUTT I CANT EVEN.

Not to mention, I have two kids, and how do you date with kids? Is there a book on this? Like a really detailed book that explains how to do handle the logistics? Is it gross to go on dates while your ex is with the kids? Is that the only way it's done? Ideally I want to meet another single parent, and preemptive, pre-sleep ruminating about coordinating schedules and visitation and babysitters and bringing a stranger into my kid-upheaved house gives me the serious shpilkes.

So yeah, in conclusion, I am hanging up my dating shoes (that never even got out of the house) for a while. The flesh is willing but the mind, is weak. Or something. I'll keep my profile alive in theory, in case someone truly irresistible comes along, but for now, this mama's off the market.

**AND IN TWO WEEKS SHE MET THE MAN SHE WOULD MARRY**

Just kidding. 

The end. (For now.)

xoxo,
A

Written on the Body

The day after I asked Tim to move out, I couldn't speak. I was literally rendered speechless; for almost two weeks I was queen of whispers. The girls though it was hilarious (and it actually is good for parenting, when you can't raise your voice, we discovered).

My voice is back, mostly, but my car-singing ability seems to be permanently compromised. Dammit.

While we were on vacation, I lifted Baby G up and out of the bed and felt my neck go "click." For the rest of the trip, right-side-looks required my entire torso to come along for the ride. Extra bonus good times: watching the girls in the pool, airplane travel, Baby G sleeping on me on the bus.

Yoga has always been my go-to modus-exerciseus (and I require a lot of exercise, like a puppy), but now I want to run. I want to run and run and run and run. Or do hard things that have kicking and burpees and stuff like that. And then I want to eat an entire pizza and immediately go to sleep. One drawback of solo-parenting is there is no one else to do the chores.  Or, more accurately, no one else to point to/commiserate with when the chores don't get done. The girls are too small to run to the grocery store to get toilet paper, or to fold their own laundry. Pro-tip: these things have to be done ALL THE TIME. Like EVERY DAY. Phew.

We lost a friend this weekend to cancer, and another admired acquaintance is terminally ill. This certainly puts all my woes into perspective but does nothing to diminish my flashes of rage (at my situation, sometimes, sure, but mostly at the general not-fairness of the universe on behalf of those lovely men and my beautiful daughters). I can feel the rage-ball, hot and heavy, resting somewhere around my solar plexus, ready to burst out Alien-style at the slightest provocation. The only victim thus far have been my sunglasses (thrown to the ground in a kid/paint/mess related tantrum).

I am turning 40 this year, and have to think about these things: mammograms, skin checks, genetic testing for the cancer gene.

On Wednesday a dear friend invited me to join her footsoak/massage birthday gathering. I felt nervous for feeling pleasurable sensations, afraid of relaxing and relinquishing the tight hold I have on my body and emotions for these last weeks. I sank into my chair and closed my eyes and hoped I would not spontaneously start sobbing or farting or whatever. I didn't, it was lovely.

Both girls have been having lots of trouble getting to sleep at night. Little A. is afraid of shadows. She has come into my room almost every night asking "please love me up until light-time" or "can you cuddle on me until morning" and of course I can't say no but then she has also wet my bed twice and there is a limit to the number of times I can turn the mattress. 

I close my eyes and imagine myself in room, on a bed, in the magic hour light, with clean sheets and curtains softly blowing in the breeze. Someone very handsome is waiting just out of sight. I close my eyes and imagine myself floating up to my ears, in a lake, under the stars, alone. My girls are sleeping peacefully in a room together somewhere very nearby.

I lace up my sneakers and run and run and run. I get in my car and sit at my desk. I go home and tend to everyone and watch TV and go to bed. I can feel our next phase just right there. Let's please just get there, already.

xoxo, A

The Lady Bunch

So 

So --

So....

So, OK. Here is my advice to you: don't have children with someone you barely know. Just don't, unless it is absolutely unavoidable. Don't be like me and presume everything is going to work out for the best. I mean, what is even the best?

5 years and innumerable arguments, reconciliations, threats, cold shoulders, "really hard trying," long conversations, hot tempers, lonely nights, grumpy mornings, peaceful weekends, shitty vacations.

One last breach, one terse dismissal, and we're done.

I am officially a single mother of two. Tim is moving out, officially, this weekend. I am:

relieved
terrified
hopeful

and rinse and repeat and collapse into bed. 

I am one of these weird people who adores change. Give me a map and a key to a new apartment and I am in heaven. So, that part, the change part, of the whole thing is not scary to me: it's exhilarating. I get to set a new normal for me and my girls. We are working on new routines. We are figuring out short-term and long-term plans. We are not moving, in spite of Little A's repeated requests to do so (chip off the old block, that one), at least not for the summer. Nothing is *actually* changing except for Daddy being less present. The dog might be taking it harder than the kids, for the moment.

Here's the thing, also. There are these two small humans (and a dog and a cat and 5 chickens) who are entirely dependent on me to be OK. So I am OK. I am not even faking OK. I am absolutely OK and focused on the future and getting through this tough part with minimal scarring. 

The girls and I went on a trip to Longboat Key, Florida, last week, and spent loads of time in the sun, without their dad. It was a perfectly-timed glimpse at our new life. It was fun, tiring, exciting, and filled with hugs and kisses and tears and tantrums and SUPER late bedtimes and meltdowns and swimming and everything.

More than fine.

So here we are: the Lady Bunch (aka the Green Team, per Little A., when we are crushing our new routines and working together to get where we need to go metaphorically and in reality). We are going to be just fine.

We are going to be just fine.

We are going to be just fine.




xoxo, A