Intruders

Mary Claire is not happy about showing our house. She's more than a little unnerved by the knowledge that people are going to walk through her room, see her toys, possibly lick her toothbrush.

"Are they going to touch my stuff?" she asks constantly. "Will they open my drawers? Will they read my books? Will they sit on my bed?"

And we very calmly explain to her that there's no need for concern -- that everyone who comes through our house will be accompanied by a professional realtor, that they won't have free reign to use our toilets or grab a snack from our pantry.

"But what about my stuff?" she continues to ask. "I don't want them touching my things."

I'm not sure who she's imagining walking through her room, but it obviously resembles some kind of grunting, dirty, three-headed abomination.

"Honey," I finally relented, "don't worry about your things. At worst, they'll only read your diary. And kiss your Justin Bieber posters, and undress your American Girl dolls. And they'll probably test Sam's deodorant and try on George's underwear and eat Gus's hidden stash of beef jerky."

I think that quelled her fears. She seems much more comfortable with the situation now.

Leap of Faith

It's official. Our house is on the market. In this tumultuous time of negative equity and rising interest rates, we've decided to forge ahead. It's a buyer's market, not a seller's. But at this juncture, we are paying keen attention to the signs the universe is laying at our feet. And, after all, we've never been known for our wise real estate investments or our impeccable timing.

Our local school referendum didn't pass in November, and with a five million dollar budget deficit knocking at the schoolhouse door, big changes are underway. Because this tribe gets the double-whammy--four kids in the system and a primary breadwinner employed by the system--the handwriting is on the wall.

It's time for us to move on. The tidal wave is coming, and we're seeking higher ground.

In so many ways, this is a good and powerful move for our family. Chris is finishing his doctoral dissertation and scouring the higher ed market for a professorship that will enable him to begin creating the public education reform that so desperately needs to be created. He is a pontificator and a "Big Idea" guy at heart--the classroom is where he belongs. He's an inspired teacher, an outside-the-box thinker who is wholeheartedly and passionately devoted to empowering and educating our youth. He is going where he belongs.

And as for us? Sam, Gus, Mary Claire, George, and me? We belong together. The six of us. Wherever we land.

Does moving break my heart in a million different ways? Yes.

Am I excited about the possibilities of new adventures and experiences? Yes.

Some days, the excitement wins. Some days, the sadness wins.

Indiana is the only home I've ever known. My family is here. My friends are here. My history is here. My heart is here. Leaving all that behind is too overwhelming to even think about in its entirety. I'm approaching it bit by bit by bit, biting off only the tiniest pieces so I can chew and digest them without losing my lunch.

My kids are alternately excited and apprehensive. The possibility of new experiences is alluring; the fear of the unknown, a bit paralyzing.

Sam wonders what will happen if things end up being "bad." When I ask him to define what "bad" means to him, he isn't sure. He's just worried about what might be "bad."

"What if things end up good?" I ask. "Have you ever heard of the glass being half-full instead of half-empty? What if we choose to create our own happiness wherever we are?"

And he shrugs and walks away, still a bit uncomfortable in his own teenage skin. He'll begin high school in a brand new place. I understand how daunting that is. But I remind myself--and him--that he's a good, easy-going kid. He's smart, he's athletic, he's charismatic, and--darn it--people like him. His location does not determine his success. He does.

Gus is ready to go. He's excited about the change, about creating whoever it is he wants to be. And as long as we move to a state that hasn't banned the sale of Doritos, he's onboard.

Mary Claire laments leaving her friends behind. I find little heartbreaking "goodbye" notes scattered throughout her bedroom. So we constantly encourage her to share her feelings and remind her of the friends she has yet to meet and make.

"What about Sally in South Dakota?"

"Or Tina in Tennessee?"

"Or Cathy in California?"

"Or Molly in Michigan?"

Our goofy antics make her turn down "The Rose" and smile through her tears, and I have to remind myself of Jenny's words of wisdom: "Guess what? You get to have friends in abundance, everywhere you go. You get to keep your friends here and make new ones there. You get to live in abundance, always."

George wants to know why we have to keep talking about it all the time. "Why do we have to talk about how we're going to have sad days, and then we're going to have an adventure, and then we're going to have sad days, and then we're going to have an adventure?! Seriously, can I just have some ice cream?"

But we talk--albeit ad nauseum at times--because we want our kids to know that change is scary and exciting all at once and that our emotions will run the gamut and that feeling a thousand different feelings during this process is normal and expected and okay and that facing unknown challenges will strengthen our character and bring us closer together and that in the end, all will be well.

And I truly believe in my heart of hearts that all will be well. Perhaps even better.

But then I think about who I'm going to share spinach and artichoke dip and book reviews with when Mary is not around...
and who I'm going to laugh until I cry with when Andi is five states away...
and who I'm going drink red wine with and bare my soul to when Jenny is no closer than a phone call...
and who is going to meet me at Panera when Nicole and Liz can't swing the 10-hour drive...
and who I'm going to cheer for the Colts with when Kristie's seats are filled with Indy locals...
and who is going to bring me Coffee Mate goodness when Brian's territory doesn't quite reach all the way across the country...
and who I'm going to order a Keoke coffee (with an extra shot of Kahlua) for when my mom is home in Greenfield...

And then I have to stop thinking and Simply Be.

Because I know who will be with me.

Sam. Gus. Mary Claire. George. Chris. Even stinky Maggie and Lucy, my lazy, work-from-home compadres.

And I know that no matter how many miles separate us, Jenny will still yell, "WHAT?!" when she answers my phone calls and Shmee will still send me snarky emails and Amy will still be my biggest cheerleader and Jocey will grow up and know that her Beautiful Great Aunt Katrina loves her from miles away and the irreplaceable long-distance friendship I have with Jody will be a model for all my other vital and life-sustaining relationships.

So many things remain the same in the face of change.

And I give thanks for the modern technologies--the Internet, Skype, Facebook, email, text, mobile... (That almost sounded like an ExactTarget ad, didn't it?)--that will allow me to remain connected with those I must leave behind (physically, maybe, but never, ever emotionally). And I will relish the days when I can drive (or fly) home to wrap my arms around those whose lives are irrevocably intertwined with mine. When I can feel my friends' kind and warm hearts beating in time with my own as we hug and hug and then hug some more.

Today is a sad day for me. The lock box is on the door, the yard sign comes tomorrow. Today, there are tears in abundance, tissues in the trash can, and ears that are tired from weeping to my loved ones on the phone. Today, I sit in my grungy old bathrobe eating leftover homemade chicken noodle soup while I enjoy the comforts of home in the home that will soon be someone else's.

But tomorrow, there are new possibilities, new horizons. Tomorrow, we get to create new lives full of wonder and promise and love.

And abundance. Always, abundance.

Let the adventure begin.

Yes, Virginia

Yesterday, Mary Claire came flying through the door after school with great concern and consternation.

"Mom!" she yelled, orange backpack laden with hundreds of keychains flung violently to the floor. "Half of my class doesn't believe in Santa Claus!! Can you believe that?"

"Wow," I replied. "Half the class, huh? What did those kids say?"

"They said there is no Santa Claus -- that your parents leave all the presents."

"Interesting. What do you think about that?"

"Well, I think they're crazy," she said in her eye-rolling, hair-flipping, "duh" kind of way. "And I told them so."

She paused for a minute.

"You believe in Santa Claus, don't you?" she asked, blue eyes wide with anticipation. For just a moment, I sensed a slight chink in her determination armor. That kind that makes you take pause and consider, Oh shit! What if they're right and I'm wrong?

"I believe there is a lot of magic at Christmastime," I explained. "And Santa Claus is part of that holiday wonder and excitement."

"Right," she said, already only half-listening, fully satisfied with my response and her original stance, and eager to continue her mile-a-minute banter.

"I told my friends, 'There has to be a Santa Claus because we were in Disney last year, and HE STILL CAME TO OUR HOUSE! How do you explain that?!'" And then she did that obnoxious, pre-teen head bobbing move that indicates the victorious verbal slaying of her debating compadres.

"What did they say?"

"They said, 'Your parents still did it.'"

Then she grinned with devilish delight. "And I said, 'Whatever! (Insert aforementioned head bobbing move here.) My parents were WITH ME!'" And with that striking blow, she tossed her tangled locks, turned on her heel, and ventured to the pantry for her after-school snack.

I love that sassafras girl.

When You Wish Upon a... Wishbone

Mary Claire and George had never before seen a wishbone. (Maybe a result of their mother's cooking deficit? Perhaps.) But because I'd used my trusty Crock Pot to cook a big old turkey breast so we could partake in the traditional leftovers, we were gifted with a wishbone that sat drying on the island for the past few days.

Last night, Chris explained to them what a wishbone was all about. He used words like "clavicle" and Mary Claire used words like "Eww, gross."

We then proceeded to tell them that if they each made a wish and pulled one end of the wishbone, it would break unevenly -- and that the person who ended up with the bigger half would be granted his or her wish.

They both thought long and hard about their wishes while Chris peppered them with questions such as, "Did you wish for your Daddy to get a new car? Did you wish for Daddy to get a new iPhone?" And they commenced with eye-rolling and brow-furrowing as they continued to ponder this big decision.

Then came time for the pull.

I have never in my life seen a wishbone split like this. NEVER. In fact, I said that exact line... loudly... multiple times. "I have NEVER seen a wishbone split that that. EVER!" And they finally all shushed me while Chris lamented the fact that HE always gets pegged as the loud one.

But truly, isn't that a sight to behold?

I think it means that both their wishes get to come true.

In fact, I think all our wishes get to come true.

Facebook Status Overload

Yesterday was our annual "Picking Out the Perfect Christmas Tree" outing. The weather was gorgeous, the sun stunning, and I only heard one under-the-breath order to "shut it" (because they're not allowed to say "shut up") from one charming Willis child to another as we loaded into the Suburban.

On the way to the Christmas tree farm, I was lamenting the fact that "Table for Six: The Extraordinary Tales of an Ordinary Family" still wasn't ready for public consumption. I peppered Chris with the usual questions...

Should it be in narrative form?

If so, should it be chronological?

Does is work as a series of essays?

Will anyone want to read it?

Should I just retire my typing fingers and become a stripper instead?

And his response?

"I think that what will make this book absolutely perfect is if you write the entire thing in third person." And then he rolled his eyes and proceeded to turn up the Run-DMC Christmas carols. Because we've had this conversation approximately 3,268 times. Just this week.

"Yeah!" Sam chimed in. "Sam thinks you should always write in third person."

"Gus agrees," added my 11-year-old.

"Mary Claire thinks we should all stop for hot chocolate."

"And George thinks he should receive lots of LEGOs for Christmas."

And that is how the Third Person Trip To the Christmas Tree Farm Conversation began.

"Katrina thinks all her kids are smart asses -- just like their father," I interjected after a series of loud and unruly third person comments. "And because they are all irreverent and obnoxious, she is going to sing 'Away in a Manger' at the top of her lungs."

"Noooo!" they all cried.

"Sam thinks he will die if he has to listen to that!"

But I did it anyway.

And just for the record, no one perished.

Much To Be Thankful For

It's that season again -- time to reflect upon our lives and to acknowledge each and every one of our blessings. And because it's Thanksgiving time, Jody can't really give me crap about getting all sappy with my gratitude. So, compadres, here it is.

In 2010, I'm Thankful For...

1. Big Daddy Willis, my better half, my rock, my one and only -- and the sweet dance moves he breaks out in the kitchen.
2. My four little (or not so little) Willis's, each with his or her own set of quirks, talents, and general annoyances. They've grown up enough to each hone a unique brand of witty sarcasm... but every one of them still wants to be tucked in at night. I love that.
3. Two stinky, faithful dogs who constantly vie for the sunniest spot on the family room floor.
4. Canine breath mints -- rarely used, always appreciated.
5. Unconditional friendships.
6. Two healthy legs to run... very... slowly... on.
7. Mom and Bob who loved, nurtured, and raised me -- even when they probably would have preferred to ground me... indefinitely.
8. Jean and Dave who -- at age 40 -- were blessed with the surprise that turned out to be the man of my dreams.
9. My extended family -- even the crazy ones (I'm not naming names... but in all honesty must count myself among them).
10. A big ass washing machine and heavy duty dryer.
11. The blogosphere to support my compulsion for over-sharing.
12. Books, books, and more books -- and the gifted writers who continue to pen them.
13. Red wine and chocolate, sometimes together, but always satisfying independently as well.
14. Opportunities for new adventures -- even when we least expect them.
15. Dave Matthews (John Mayer will have to wait to make it back onto next year's list. I'm still a little miffed about the whole Taylor Swift thing.).
16. Trust.
17. Movie theaters, buttered popcorn, and Diet Coke.
18. New tires on the Suburban.
19. Education and a lifelong opportunity to learn and grow.
20. Abundance. Always, abundance.
21. Sappy love songs from the 70s.
22. A voice with which to sing sappy love songs from the 70s in my infinite quest to simultaneously entertain and annoy my children.
23. The gumption to look Big Life Changes in the face and know that all will be well.
24. Laughter.
25. The kindness of strangers... and friends.

Happy Thanksgiving, Dear Ones.

Who's the Lucky Lady?

Apparently, only ONE Zionsville female is invited to attend the Holiday Shopping extravaganza.

This makes me crazy. Seriously crazy.

I realize that I make grammatical errors and typos on my blog from time to time. But my posts have not been through multiple hands. They have not been proofed and sent to a sign company. They have not been printed and distributed throughout town (at least to the best of my knowledge).

And most of them are heavily influenced by red wine consumption.

I'm afraid this is what happens in a town that doesn't support public education.

It's all downhill from here, neighbors.

26.2

A week ago today, I did it. 26.2 miles. My goal was to run the first 13.1, then walk/run the second half. I ran to mile 18 and then took the last 8 as they came. It wasn't fast, wasn't pretty. My time -- by most runner's standards -- was dismal.

But I was over the moon.

Many people along the way -- water station volunteers, spectators, police officers -- commented on my smile, told me how nice it was to see someone looking so happy after 20 miles.

And I was.

This marathon for me wasn't about "winning" in the traditional sense. It was about the experience, the journey. It was about seeing the smiling faces of my beloved husband and kids every six miles. It was about having my 14-year-old whisper in my ear as he ran beside me, "You've got this. You can do this." It was about smiling for Brian's camera so he could record this very important day of my life -- the one he so graciously chose to share with us. It was about hearing my friends cheer for me as I approached mile 26, and then having them run me to the finish line. It was about listening to a song on my iPhone that made me think of a very special person in my life. It was about greeting strangers along the way, encouraging them on their journey, congratulating them on their accomplishments. It was remembering and holding closely all the notes, cards, emails, text messages, care packages, and well-wishes from my dear friends and relatives.

Most people will never run a marathon in their lives.

I enjoy knowing I'm not like most people.

My friend, Shmee, wrote a brilliant blog post about gingerbread people and how they are so very ordinary. It's easy to be a gingerbread man, simple to do what's expected of you, safe to do what everyone else is doing.

I'm ready to be different, to do something unexpected, to take the path less traveled.

Less than 1% of the world's population ever completes a marathon. I want to continue to run with them.

Don't get me wrong -- I have no desire to complete another marathon. Friends told me I'd be hooked, that I'd want to continue spending my Saturdays doing 20-mile training runs. I've not yet felt that urge. Nor do I expect to. But I do want to break the mold, live authentically, focus on what truly matters in this life.

The failure of a school corporation referendum in our town has forced us into examining our personal situation, of accepting the reality of what the future holds (or doesn't hold) for us here, to create a Plan B. I believe that everything happens for a reason. And although I'm not quite self-centered enough to think that God smote our town with dissension and discord so the Willis's could determine their true path in life, I think He most definitely gave us some new material to work with.

And so, as we stride with assurance into our 40s, we get to make some big decisions and chart a course that most would consider a little off-kilter, a bit against the norm. Shmee, we're casting aside our gumdrop buttons and joining the less than 1% who follow the "traditional" path in life.

Just like my marathon pace, I intend to take this one in stride -- to enjoy the view along the way, to look forward to seeing the bright and shining faces of my family and friends, to smile at and thank the strangers along the way.

I doubt this journey will cause me to lose another toenail, but I believe the adventures in store will be even more unexpected, even more exciting. Will they be painful, too? Possibly. But I've pulled my own damaged toenail off with a pair of tweezers.

I can do anything.

An Article Conversation

I want a kinder, gentler world. I'm tired of the fighting, the blaming, the "I've got to be right which ultimately means that you have to be wrong" attitude. It wears me out. It really does.

I've always been kind of a "gray" person. That doesn't mean that I don't have strong opinions or beliefs. It simply means that I'm not a "my way or the highway" kind of girl. I realize that there are multiple sides to every story. There are very few hills I'm willing to die on.

After all, I have so much to live for.

What I'd like to propose is an article conversation. And because I must give credit where credit is due -- and so as not to be accused of plagiarism or intellectual property theft (right, Shmee?) -- I will tell you that my wise husband gave birth to this particular set of semantics.

The article conversation is simple. It is "a/an" versus "the."

This is "a" way versus "the" way.

This is "an" answer versus "the" answer.

This is "a" solution versus "the" solution.

The difference is vast, isn't it? And it plays out everywhere. In our churches, in our homes, in our schools, in our neighborhoods. In every conversation we engage in, we get to choose our articles.

I choose the kinder, gentler version.

After all, aren't we all here to be the best we can be? To do the best with what we have? I grow weary of "I'm right and you're wrong."

That's just a story. And we all have those.

Maybe instead of an "I'm right and you're wrong" conversation, we should consider that "I'm right and you're right." Those conversations are the toughest ones to reconcile, aren't they?

While at the polls on Tuesday, I listened to a man behind me complain about the inefficiencies of the operation. He had ALL the answers. Within five minutes of waiting in line, he knew exactly how to eliminate the wait, how to expedite the process, how to fix the perceived problem. And he then verbally assaulted a poll worker with his expertise. He had his story and he was sticking to it. He didn't care what the poll worker had to say. He just wanted HIS STORY to be heard. Loudly. And emphatically. What's that they say about walking a mile in another man's shoes? Perhaps if he'd gotten up at 4:30 AM to volunteer his assistance at the polls, he'd have seen things differently, he'd have understood another viewpoint. But he didn't have time for that. He was BUSY. He was IMPORTANT. He was obviously the SMARTEST MAN IN THE ROOM. I was disappointed in myself for not taking a stand. I voted, I exited, and I sat in my car disgusted with that man's actions and with my own decision not to act.

What kind of a friend, family member, neighbor, community, state, nation have we become when we treat others with such disdain? When we fail to trust that perhaps someone might have a valid alternative viewpoint? Or that someone might know a little more about the situation than we do? Or that maybe -- just maybe -- both stories are accurate. And the yelling and screaming and berating gets in the way of understanding.

I'm a strong advocate of the Charter for Compassion. The opening of their mission statement begins like this:

"The principle of compassion lies at the heart of all religious, ethical and spiritual traditions, calling us always to treat all others as we wish to be treated ourselves. Compassion impels us to work tirelessly to alleviate the suffering of our fellow creatures, to dethrone ourselves from the centre of our world and put another there, and to honour the inviolable sanctity of every single human being, treating everybody, without exception, with absolute justice, equity and respect."

It doesn't say anything about making sure that we're right -- always and unequivocally.

If you're interested in a kinder, gentler world, I encourage you to explore the Charter for Compassion.

I'm starting in the only logical place: with me. I'll never claim that I've perfected it, that I've got all the answers, that I haven't failed time and time again. But I will claim to move forward -- with integrity and purpose.

And as a sidebar, here's our best bit of news this week...

Gus has "a" heart murmur. He does not have "the" kind of heart murmur that we need to worry about.

My favorite article, indeed.

Butts and Hearts

Jody and I were Facebooking each other yesterday about thongs. She was commenting on how much she enjoys the panty line free look they give her. I admitted that I've never owned one. If I don't want to have panty lines, well, I believe there's an easier solution.

The conversation then turned to our butts and cellulite and all the wonderful bodily flaws that come with age and Oreos. That's just the kind of friendship we have.

And then... BAM!

Out of nowhere, our lighthearted conversation changed.

Because I was sitting at the doctor's office while Gus got a sports physical. The doctor listened to his heart, frowned, listened some more, had him lie down, frowned a little more, and then invited me over to the examination table.

"He's got a murmur."

Umm, no he doesn't. He's seen a million doctors, my Gus. Yes, his lungs are battered and bruised, but his heart? Big and expansive and perfectly functional.

"Has anyone ever mentioned it before?"

Umm. No. NO.

She then gave me her stethoscope, positioned it over his skinny, scarred chest and told me what to listen for.

And I heard what she described.

She looked at me apologetically.

"I know this isn't what you wanted to hear, and I'm sure everything is fine. Most heart murmurs are perfectly normal. But I can't release him to play until he has an echocardiogram."

She then went on to explain what might be happening. And her explanation included words like "regurgitation" and "ventricle," but my brain was still filled with the lub-dub sound of Gus's kind and sensitive heart.

What I do know and understand is that we're going to Peyton Manning Children's Hospital next Wednesday. Back to whence we began. But I refuse to proceed with fear. I am choosing to believe that all is well, that his little heart is simply overflowing with love and happiness, that it's working overtime to support those gangly limbs and that larger-than-life, toothy grin.

And when we walk out of Door 4 on Wednesday morning with a clean bill of health, I'll call Jody and we'll resume our butt talk.

"All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well." Yes, Julian of Norwich.

Yes.

Heartland Films and the Heart of Home

I just finished engaging in the most decadent, self-indulgent ten days of my life. The Heartland Film Festival finished its annual run on Saturday, and I consumed nearly 30 movies within the space of a week.

Those of you who know me well know that there's nothing I love more than a good movie -- except perhaps, a good book. And as luck would have it, the screening theatre was right next to a Borders book store. You know what that meant? Movie... then bookstore browsing until the next movie... then movie... then bookstore purchasing until the next movie... then movie. Yes, my friends, life was indeed good.

Although I went to each screening alone (except the ones Chris attended with me), I rarely sat by myself. I found many friends to enjoy my time with. Some shared their Tinkys, some gave popcorn eating recommendations, some reminded me of my maternal worth, some warmed my heart with inside tales of my own kids. Some began as strangers and left as friends -- those who shared their tissues, their hearts, and their experiences. It was a community that was second to none.

During the course of this adventure, my poor husband was diagnosed with pneumonia. Pneumonia!! He's normally akin to a cockroach or a Twinkie -- nothing can take him down. Having spent the last 13 years in a public school setting, he's developed every immunity known to man. But apparently, this was one bad ass bacteria that settled in his lungs. When he finally went to the doctor, she said, "I'm pretty sure you don't have meningitis..."

That's not my favorite way to start a sentence.

That poor man didn't leave his bed for an entire week. He fevered, sweated, fevered, sweated some more, and then he slept. And then he slept a little more. And then the coughing began.

My kids were essentially on their own. But trust me when I say that they weren't complaining. Unlimited TV watching and XBox playing? Bring it on. Breakfast for dinner and Subway on the run? Manna from heaven.

Once Chris was actually diagnosed, I did offer to stay home with him.

"What are you going to do? Watch me sleep?" he asked. "Go. We're fine here."

So, I listened to some Michael Buble as I cleaned the kitchen and caught up on some laundry, and I heard him shout weakly from our upstairs bedroom, "For God's sake, Katrina, you're killing me! Go to the movies! Go! I can't take the Michael Buble any longer!"

And that's when our friend, Larry, threatened to call Husband Protection Services.

I may not receive the Mother of the Year Award (well, we all knew that was a pipe dream anyway), and I'm probably out of the running for the Wife of the Year Award now, too. But the messages from some of those movies were a great reminder of what's truly important in this life.

Kindness for the sake of kindness. Existing for a greater good. People you love -- and who love you --unconditionally and without boundaries. Living your life as a blessing to those around you. Remembering, always, what's important and vital and right.

Yes, I may have abandoned my family for a week of popcorn overindulgence and steadfast support of the Kleenex industry, but when I returned to the heart of my home, I was rejuvenated. And when I speak of my home, I don't mean these walls, these furnishings, these things.

I mean Chris, the unwavering love of my life. I mean Sam, Gus, Mary Claire, and George. They are all bits of my own heart walking around outside my body.

Even when they balk at Michael Buble remakes of Willie Nelson classics.

Even then.

Licking My Wounds

So, whatever God was bringing my way? You know, the thing I'd been waiting so patiently for? I found out today that it wasn't grad school at Bennington. The dreaded letter arrived in the mail. When I fished it out of the giant pile of bills, I was certain it was going to be the perfect ending to a fun-filled day.

Damn.

There's nothing like a ding letter to take the wind out of your writing sails. As a writer, I receive them constantly. I've grown accustomed to papering my walls with them. But grad school? Really? I've always been good at school. Perhaps I should have sent my A+++ Haiku. If my shiny, happy college transcripts didn't do the trick, maybe that would have tipped the scales in my favor.

I'm more disappointed than I thought I'd be. If I'd been accepted, I'm not even sure whether I would have gone. It's incredibly expensive, it's more than demanding, and it would have required a lot of time away from my family. But ultimately, I wanted to be the one to make that decision. I wanted to tell them "no," not vice versa.

Yes, I know that's an issue.

The word that keeps popping into my head? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Because sometimes nothing is as effective as the F-Bomb at conveying my emotions. Eloquent? No. But effective nonetheless.

The good news is that I didn't writhe around on the floor in agony and defeat like I did when I received my ding letter from Hallmark at age 22. I guess that means I've grown up a bit since then. I know it's not the end of the world. But blows like this are tough on the ego. I had planned to come home and work on my novel tonight. Now I'm pretty convinced that it's nothing more than mindless drivel. I was just talking with Jenny today about my resistance to self-publishing or e-publishing because of my need for validation from The Publishing Experts. I need someone else to say "yes" before I can say "yes" to myself.

Yeah, I realize that's an even bigger issue.

It's been a rough week at the Willis abode. Sam got cut from the 8th grade basketball team. Mary Claire didn't get the detective job she wanted at BizTown. (She was, however, named CFO. I tried to explain to her that this wasn't the colossal disappointment she thought it was, but she REALLY wanted to be a detective.)

And therein lies the message for all of us, right?

Whatever we have in mind for ourselves isn't always part of the Bigger Plan. Bennington wasn't meant to be for me. At least not now. Maybe not ever.

I know there's a reason.

But tonight, I'm fighting those damn demons that say, "You're not good enough. You're not talented enough. You'll never make it."

And what do we call that, Shmee? Resistance? He's taken up residence in my house. I just fluffed the pillows and brought him a glass of warm milk. Tomorrow, I'll commence with kicking his ass to the curb.

I know life goes on. I realize that in the big scheme of things, I am more than blessed. I have more than my share. I am one damn lucky woman. I may not have been the right fit for Bennington, but I'll figure out where I'm supposed to land.

On to Plan B...

Not Much

I've been getting some feedback from readers who are disappointed with my blogging pace lately. Some are outwardly verbal and don't mind posting their concerns in my comments section (Nicole, Shmee, Jody...). Others like to wait until they see me in person and drop a quick sidebar comment about how long it's been since I've posted (Karen...). All are much appreciated, much loved, and very much listened to.

But here's the thing.

I haven't had much to say lately. (Shocked silence, I know.)

My days have been set on auto-pilot, we're wandering aimlessly in limbo, and nothing earth-shattering has rocked our worlds.

Some might call that a state of bliss.

Yes, we have big changes on the horizon. They're kind of loitering in the front yard, however, talking amongst themselves and refusing to make eye contact. The dogs bark at them, of course, but those life changes pay no mind. Someday soon, I think they'll come knocking on our front door. But I'm letting them take their time. I want them to feel comfortable. They'll be guests in the beginning, but ultimately, they'll become part of our lives. I don't want to scare them away with the macaroni and tuna casserole just yet.

And so, life meanders on. I'm writing a great deal these days. Well, I should reiterate that I WAS writing a great deal until the nearly-catastrophic spilling-of-the-water-on-the-laptop incident occurred. For two days, my beloved Mac stood in an upside-down V formation while she dried out -- sans battery and hard drive. Today, she's back with us. It was touch and go for awhile, but she rallied. The back-up power cord didn't fare so well, but at least we still have one. One is enough.

You're probably wondering why I chose to have a glass of water beside my laptop. I have, as you might recall, performed the same water trick within the last 18 months. That time, the price was a brand new laptop and a Trail of Tears from Spring Knoll to the Apple store that rivaled any arduous and heart-wrenching cross-country journey. (Well, almost.) But, friends, I'm all about hydrating right now. The drive to hydrate overcame the need to protect my livelihood. I lost my mind for a moment.

I have a tendency to flail about. I drop things, spill things, break things, knock things over. Chris likes to call me his favorite train wreck. I'm no match for my dear Molly, but I do have my unrivaled moments. I speak with my hands -- sometimes I speak with my entire upper body and multiple back-up parts. When this particular water incident occurred, I was scanning pictures, singing to Lady Gaga at the top of my lungs, and dancing around the kitchen. Who knew those activities were conducive to water spillage?

I've since enacted a new house rule: no edible or drinkable objects on my desk. EVER. (The peanut butter M&Ms sitting beside me right now are the exception to the rule. They don't crumb, they don't spill, they simply self-sabotage my weight loss journey. And that has nothing at all to do with preserving the integrity of my laptop.)

We'll see how long the house rule stands. I tend to forget these minor details...

The rest of our lives have been just as uneventful. Mary Claire recently recovered from a bout of bronchitis. Sam is finishing the last of his Z-Pack for a double ear infection and bronchitis. We left Sam's ailments untreated for at least two weeks. Why? Because he doesn't complain. And he doesn't run a fever. He might cough hard enough to lose a lung, but if he's not feverish, he's not sick, right? RIGHT? The doctor comforted me with tales of sending her own broken-legged son into three football games and on a hike through the Smokey Mountains before taking his leg pain seriously. That's become my new baseline: "At least I didn't take you hiking in the Smokey Mountains WITH A BROKEN LEG!!"

Neither the good doctor nor I are currently in the running for Mother of the Year.

See? It's just our normal modus operandi over here.

Waiting Patiently

I've always been jealous of those who say they can hear God speak to them. (Yes, I know envy is one of the seven deadly sins. I KNOW! So is gluttony, but that knowledge doesn't typically come between me and my Oreos.)

Quite honestly, I don't ever remember God speaking directly to me. Through Father Reidman and Sister Veronica Ann, maybe. But directly to me? I'm pretty sure I would have remembered that. I think if He initiated conversation with me, He'd actually enjoy it. But He seems to be busy doing other things like... oh, I don't know... creating the universe and monitoring world wars and tending to all the starving and diseased and impoverished inhabitants of our planet.

He's busy. I get it.

But sometimes, I really want to hear Him. Sometimes, I really want Him to say, "Hey, Katrina! How's it going? Been a long time since I've seen you in the Confessional, huh?" And, of course, I'd have to agree.

Perhaps we'd talk about our favorite singers or authors...

ME: Wow, God, you really gave Jonathan Franzen a lot of talent. Maybe You should have spread that around a bit.

GOD: Yes, I did, Katrina. And there's no need to live in scarcity. There's plenty of talent to go around.

ME: Yeah, I just learned all about scarcity and abundance. I'm working on that. So how about John Mayer? He's pretty easy on the eyes -- one of my favorite creations of Yours. You really outdid yourself on him.

GOD: Yes, I designed him just for you. And I knew you'd enjoy those crazy faces he makes while he's playing, too, so I threw that in for good measure.

ME: You're good, God. God is good.

GOD: Indeed.

You get the gist. Unfortunately, He just doesn't seem to want to engage on my terms.

Today, however, was different. Today, I'm pretty convinced that I heard Him. I was riding my bike in the country, getting all angsty about the possibility of a new job, grad school, new business ventures for Chris, etc., etc. I tend to not be very patient when I don't know how things are going to play out. I tend to want to know what's happening, when it's happening, how it's going to happen, and what every repercussion will be. And if you can throw in an itinerary with all the critical dates and times highlighted, that would just make my day. I might have a teensy-weensy bit of a control issue. Maybe.

So, there I was peddling along, listening to some Indigo Girls, and letting my brain overload itself with "What If? What If? What If?"

And all of a sudden, the music quieted, and somewhere inside my helmet, I heard, "Be still. Open your heart, and let me bring it to you."

SERIOUSLY, GOD?

BE STILL??

LET ME BRING IT TO YOU??

How about I meet you halfway?

Being still is like asking me to eat a live spider or or listen to Kidz Bop for 10 hours straight. It's just not within my realm of possibilities.

Be still?

And just to prove His point, a calmness washed over me like the warm flush of a good Cabernet.

Be still.

I'm working on it. I really am. When my mind starts going in a million different directions, I try to remember that heavenly, warm, red wine message.

After some contemplation, I'm a little concerned that perhaps He's been talking to me for the past 40 years, and I've been too busy to listen.

But I'm listening now. And I'm waiting. And I'm even trying to be patient.

He's bringing something my way. I can feel it.

Shhh... I can't talk right now. God's calling...

Broken

Somebody call Chicken Little because I'm pretty sure the sky is falling over here. Our house and all its contents are starting to fail us. Every day, something else breaks. Here's a list of what we're contending with right now:

1. The Master Shower Door. She's been very finicky lately. Sometimes she shuts, sometimes she doesn't. You never know when she's going to cooperate or when she's going to leak water out all over your bathroom floor. Chris has finagled her a couple of times, but we're pretty sure she's just going to have to be replaced.

2. My Beloved Washing Machine. Yes, I've blogged about her before -- the better half of my Duet. I have a love/hate relationship with this one. Because when she's good, she's very, very good. But when she F11s, she's horrid. Like any high-maintenance girl, she needs to be wooed, coaxed, cajoled. When she cries out her annoying F11 beep, I jiggle all of her wires and speak softly to her sudsy self. "Come on, Baby, don't give up now. You're strong. You're powerful. You can do this." Because I'll be damned if I'm replacing her expensive self any time soon.

3. The Suburban Back Hatch. This one is more than a little inconvenient. That damn gate won't stay up by itself anymore. So, I either have to load or unload groceries through the back window, or I have to trust one of the kids to hold the incredibly heavy back hatch up without letting it fall and completely severing my head from my body. Let me assure you that it's not very comforting to be under the shadow of that beast when George says, "Mom, are you almost done? I can't hold this much longer! It's getting too heavy! Moooooooommmmm!" Normally, I choose the window.

4. Lucy. Yup, she's still broken. Sometimes she tears around the yard on that hind leg like a bat out of Hades. Other times, she won't bear any weight on it at all. The vets are perplexed, but they're pretty sure they can determine what's wrong once we agree to invest the net worth of our firstborn into some diagnostic testing. I love Lucy a lot, but I also love eating and wearing clothes and feeding my children -- all of which cost the money that would have to be sacrificed to find a conclusive diagnosis. As Chris likes to point out, "There are a lot of good three-legged dogs in this world. She'll be one of them."

5. Back Patio Door. The lock broke on this bad boy. It's always been a bitch to open and close, to lock and unlock. Finally, he just gave in. Luckily, he was still under warranty, so the replacement piece has already been installed by my Renaissance Man. Now I can sleep at night.

6. Sonny. The other half of the goldfish duo, Sonny and Claire (sooooo close to the originals, my friends, but we couldn't convince Mary to go with Cher instead) kicked the bucket yesterday. Granted, we hadn't had him for long. Mary Claire won them at the Fall Festival, and we were all banking on an early demise. I guess that doesn't make him broken, though. Just dead. RIP Sonny.

7. The Dishwasher Door. Chris and George took it apart last night, but they still couldn't get it to open and close properly. The new handle has been ordered, but until then, I've been given strict instructions to NOT shut the door completely. Apparently, it has to be coaxed back open with a screwdriver. Me not closing the dishwasher door completely is sheer, unadulterated torture. It's like having socks hanging out of your dresser drawer or the fringe on your carpet being wadded and tangled. Ugh.

8. The South Beach Lifestyle. Because of my training, I've been adding more carbs back into my diet. Good ones, of course, but I must admit that carbs are a slippery slope. I mean, if I can eat some whole wheat bread, why not just go ahead and throw peanut butter M&Ms back into the mix, too? Lots of peanut butter M&Ms. I'm getting all hot and bothered just thinking about them. When I cross the finish line on November 6, I'm going straight back to Phase 1. Well, after I vomit relentlessly, curl up into the fetal position for at least a week, and swear off running shoes for the rest of my life. Right after that.

I'm not sure what all this brokenness means. Armageddon? A reconsideration of my refusal to buy extended warranties? A nudge to return to work so my salary can cover all of our minor catastrophes?

I'm going to go contemplate it over some peanut butter M&Ms.

Invincible

Have I mentioned how far 20 miles is?

Perhaps it doesn't seem so long in a car or on an airplane or even on a bike. Maybe it's not very daunting to an ultra-marathoner or an Iron Man.

But for 40-year-old me? It's a good distance. A good, long distance.

I've been thinking a great deal about my 20-mile run on Saturday. Fueled by the encouragement of my friends, neighbors, and family, I did something on Saturday that I've never, ever done before in my life.

I ran 20 miles.

You know what that makes me think? It makes me think I can do anything.

ANYTHING.

Here are some of the things I think I might be able to do now...

1. Take on a brand new, kick-ass job and create some corporate magic
2. Attend grad school with an A+++ average... or simply enjoy the journey (right, Chris?)
3. Publish a New York Times bestseller... then another... and then another...
4. Raise 4 well-adjusted children who eat leafy, green vegetables
5. Cultivate my most treasured friendships with love, laughter, and red wine
6. Lose that last 20 pounds (one pound for each mile)
7. Become the first female President
8. Jump out of a perfectly good airplane
9. Dive down to the bottom of the sea (sans gills)
10. Rule the world

Now, I may not actually want to do all of those things, but the ones that I desire? I've got those covered.

Watch out, World. Ready or not, here I come!

(And thanks, Oprah, for the very timely reminder.)

It's My Job

Last week, I was the Mystery Reader in George's class. Lest you think I'm a super-charged, high-volunteering, PTO kind of Mom, let me assure you that this is one of the very few times I volunteer in my kids' classrooms. I love, love, love to the be the class reader. And they love, love, love for me to stay as far away from school as possible. But as I always explain to them, it's my job as their Mother to embarrass them. Someday, I assure them, they'll look back and appreciate the spirit and joie de vivre that I brought into their young lives.

Right now, they're not so sure.

When I walked into George's classroom last week, his teacher announced, "Well, our Mystery Reader is here today!" Every little third grade head turned around to see who the elusive Mystery Reader was. But George's reaction was priceless. He did the classic, slow-motion double-take... and when the dreaded realization hit, his face turned 583 shades of purple.

"Does anyone know whose Mom this is?" George's teacher asked.

Many of the kids raised their hands.

"I do! I do! It has to be George's Mom because his face is SO RED!"

When I settled in down to read, George sat as far away from me as humanly possible. In fact, if he could have pushed his back through the locker he was leaning against, he would gladly have disappeared into the lunch bags and backpacks until his greatest torment was over.

And what did I get to share with the third graders?

The dramatic reader's dream: "The Indian In the Cupboard."

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this particular story, let me elaborate on the vast potential for kid embarrassment contained within. There are TWO distinct accents that I got to create -- the very un-PC Indian dialect and the drunk cowboy vernacular.

Before I opened the book, George's teacher discreetly whispered to me, "If you get to the part about the cowboy drinking whiskey, make something else up instead. Call it tea or water or Diet Coke or something."

So, friends, I had to be on my "A" game the entire time lest I encourage those little buggers to drink whiskey and suffer from delirium tremens.

And let me just say that it's impossible to NOT do an un-PC Indian accent when the dialogue is written in this manner: "You, Boy, find me squaw. Then I do happy dance. I do love dance."

And it's just as impossible to NOT do a drunk cowboy accent when the dialogue is written as such: "Shucks! I jest need me a gud naught's sleep, and aw'l be gud as neeyew in the mernin'!"

Try it. I dare you.

And so, I entertained the class with my over-exaggerated cowboy drawl and my deep Indian staccato -- much to the dismay of my youngest son.

"WHY did you have to do the ACCENTS?" he asked with great disdain when he arrived home.

"They were written that way, George," I explained. "Didn't my accents make the story more exciting?"

"No, it made the story more EMBARRASSING!" he cried. "Please don't EVER be the Mystery Reader again!"

"Well, George, I might be the Mystery Reader again," I explained. "Your teacher asked me to come back."

He sighed heavily and plodded downstairs to consider this sad and unsuitable state of affairs.

But just between you and me? George's teacher said I did the best accents of any of her Mystery Readers. With that kind of praise, do you really think I'm NOT coming back? I am an Approval Whore, after all.

And I'd call that particular performance an A+++.

Melancholy Baby

I did it, friends. I ran 20 miles on Saturday. It wasn't fast. It wasn't pretty. It didn't smell good. But I finished. My beloved husband supported me with water and sustenance the entire way. Beautiful Stacy met me on the road at mile 14 and did an encouragement dance in the middle of the street. My boys rode their bikes to meet me at the edge of the neighborhood and escort me on my last mile home. A true team effort. It was a stunningly gorgeous day -- the kind that causes you to drop to your knees in gratitude. I could have asked for nothing more.

Recovery took some time. I spent an hour or so in my bed Saturday afternoon with a vat of water and a soft pillow. I drank slowly at a neighborhood party Saturday night, feeling the dehydrating effects of my beloved red wine with every sip. My recovery on Sunday was more mental than I would have hoped. I was, admittedly, beyond melancholy. Weepy at best, pathetic at worst, I battled my way through church, through a trip to Greenfield, through a lonely evening at home while Chris was at the Colts game. I soothed my sadness with some fresh-from-the-oven brownies and a side of Jonathan Franzen. I hope that my state of mind was a result of my body adjusting to 20 miles, not as a sign of who I truly am. Because throughout the day, I found myself questioning everything, crying at nothing, overly-sentimental and less than emotionally stable.

And wondering, always wondering... Am I enough? Do my kids have what they need? I can't -- and won't -- give them everything they want. But am I meeting all of their needs? Do they feel safe, loved, secure, fulfilled, powerful? Do I lift them up? God forbid I hold them down.

Is Chris fulfilled? Does he look at my every day and think, "Yes. Yes. This is the one thing that I know is right." I think he does. I hope he does. My life would mean nothing if he didn't.

And my friends? What about them? Surrounded by so many, blessed with overwhelming abundance, am I able to give them each what they desire? I know I want more from some -- do some want more from me? I felt myself on the periphery of so many friendships -- knocking tentatively on the door, wanting to be let in, but too timid to truly ask. Because what if they say no? What if I've said no to those who have knocked on my door?

A much-appreciated visit -- albeit brief -- with my best high school friend and college roommate left me weepy and doubtful. So many things I could have done differently in the past, so many mistakes I would have undone. Will I look back on this life twenty years from now and think the same thing?

Seeing my Mom yesterday was the most devastating blow of all. Hearing her friends ask about her -- "How is your Mom doing? I used to see her all the time and now I don't... I heard your Mom spent some time in the hospital this summer. Is she doing okay?... Give your Mom all my love, please. Tell her I'm thinking about her..." They, too, are thinking about what used to be, reconciling the past with the now, facing their own mortality through my Mom's long and debilitating illnesses.

She is, simply, not going to get better. Every time I see her, her stoop is a little more pronounced, her color a little more gray, her pain a little more evident. She wants to be with her grandkids, but tires in so little time. My Mom is old. She is sick. And I am 40. And still, she defines me. Still, I measure myself in terms of her. Who will I be without her someday? Where do I fit? What am I creating? What will remain when she is no longer with us? What kind of life is she living when she has already decided to no longer live? What can I do to make her life worthwhile?

Am I enough? For my Mom? My family? My friends?

And the question that truly looms? The one that is most haunting? Most poignant? The one that I am most afraid to ask?

Am I enough for me?

A Diversion

It probably seems like all I do is talk/write/blog about my marathon training. Ad nauseum. And you'd be right. Because it seems all I do these days is train for my marathon. Who knew it would be so time-consuming? Well, I suppose anyone who's ever trained for one would know... but that, obviously, wasn't me.

I was at the Fall Festival Parade Saturday talking to skinny Scott, the triathlete, about my Friday night debacle and he was giving me lots of good nutrition and hydration pointers.

"You really need to increase your caloric intake," he advised. "Some runners actually gain weight while they're training for a marathon."

It was then that I stuck my fingers in my ears and shouted, "La! La! La! La! I can't hear you! La! La! La!" Perhaps I didn't actually do that, but I thought about it. I've worked my ass off to lose this 63 pounds and I'm not going to let a little marathon stop my weight loss momentum! That's easy for a skinny-ass, super-smart music professor to say. Sheesh. I'd tell Andi to fatten her boyfriend up a little so he can run with the Big Dogs, but I also found out on Saturday that SHE DOESN'T READ MY BLOG. One of my very best friends for the past 25 years, and SHE DOESN'T READ MY BLOG. We did, however, agree to start a video blog that will be sure to amuse and entertain you. Stay tuned...

Today, I decided to do a little cross-training, so I hopped on my bike, put my helmet on the right way (I tend to wear it backwards -- much to Chris's dismay and embarrassment), and rode off into the morning for an hour and a half journey. And you know what? It was fantabulous. Here's the thing... on a bike, you can:

A. Go much faster
B. Cover much more ground
C. Stop to visit friends and loved ones without offending them with your horrifying runner's sweat smell

My first stop was to see my beloved hubby. It does make my heart go pitter-patter to see him sit behind his big mahogany desk all spiffed up in a sexy tie and just the right amount of hair product. I mean, I love him even when he wears his ragged undershirts and athletic shorts around the house, but I can't resist seeing him in his element.

And have I mentioned how much I love him? Because as shitty as Friday night was for me, it had to have been worse for him. I'm sure he wasn't thrilled to drive around Zionsville with water and Gu and to listen to me complain about how tired I was. I'm sure it was even worse to have to load my sweaty, stinky, confused body into the Suburban and ply me with salt water. And when I put my flannel PJs on -- you know, the sexy ones with the dogs and the Milk Bones all over them -- I'm sure he was lamenting the fact that he was most definitely not getting lucky. And still. He took care of me. He took care of the kids. He was only a wee bit crotchety. He's a good one, my husband. A keeper.

After visiting Chris, I wheeled over to see Andi in The Enclave. (Yes, Stace, I stopped by, but you weren't home...). I hadn't seen Andi since her surgery, but she was up and about and looking good... despite the finger-length incision and the six staples that she didn't know she had until she changed her bandages on Friday. I'm anxious to hear how THAT one turns out...

It felt good to be out and about with the wind blowing through my newly brunette hair. I enjoy running, but a diversion is good. And don't you all enjoy reading about something a little different than running, running, running, vomiting, running?

This training process has been such a learning experience for me. I'm so grateful for all your support, all your comments, all your messages, all your Facebook posts. I truly appreciate every word of advice and encouragement. Thanks to Jenny for saving my blistered heels with her Skin Shield liquid bandage that was more painful than an ancient torture device. Now that I'm all healed, I can even forgive her for calling me a baby and making "waahh, waahh" noises at me while I screamed and shouted profanities in her kitchen. Thanks to Tommy for his shin splint healing miracle exercises. Thanks to Ashley, Laura, Adam, Dawn, and countless others for helping me traverse the whole what-in-the-hell-do-I-eat-and-drink-while-I'm-running landscape. (Adam, I'm still trying to figure out what my "sweat rate" is. Right now, I can only confirm that it's HIGH.) Thanks to my kids for being polite about not wanting to hug my sweaty, stinky self after a run.

I'm off now to map out Saturday's 20-miler. The 18-mile path that I succumbed to on Friday night has become my own personal Trail of Tears. I'm not sure I have the mental toughness to run by the spot where I barfed up my raspberry-flavored Gu and say to myself, "That was in the past. I can DO THIS." Instead, I think it might just be in my best interest to blaze a new trail.

I'm picking one that's free from blurry vision, vomit, and nonsensical speech. I think that's a good start.

Friday Night Fun

Friday night was my scheduled 18-mile training run. I was anxious to get started, nervous about the distance, eager to get this one over and done with.

But I only made it through 14.

It was a beautiful night -- perfect weather, mid-70s, couldn't ask for anything better. But by mile 10, I was feeling like I'd already run 18. When Chris met me for my hydration and nutrition stop, I said, "I'm hurting, Chris. I don't know if I'm going to make it."

"Sure you are!" he said cheerfully as I wiped the nasty, white salt residue from my face. "I'll see you in four more miles!"

And away he drove in the air conditioned Suburban. The one with seats. And water. And food. The one that could so easily have driven me home to a warm shower and a waiting bed.

But I trudged on.

The sunset gave way to darkness as I ticked off mile 13. Five more to go. FIVE. I wasn't entirely sure I could take five more steps.

By the time I was approaching the 14-mile mark, it was fully dark, I was on a lonely stretch of sidewalk, and my vision started blurring. The last thing I consciously remember before calling Chris was passing my friend, Karlee and her husband as they carried a casserole dish to a Friday night party. Oh, how I wanted to be at that party... drinking heavily, eating things I shouldn't be, drinking a little more.

I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.

As I lumbered through the dark, my vision started blurring. (As most of you know, I don't wear glasses on my long runs. If I could get away with it -- and if my neighbors wouldn't be forced to rip their eyeballs out of their sockets -- I'd run naked. I just don't like any extra weight. The only thing I'll carry -- strapped to my arm -- is my iPhone. I need a little "SexyBack" when the going gets rough, and I feel a wee bit safer knowing I can call my personal sag wagon at any time.)

And call I did.

"Chris, I need you to come get me," I blurted into my sweaty phone. "I'm not right."

"Are you sure?" he asked, leading me to believe that he thought I was wimping out on him. "You've only got four more miles, right?"

"I'm not right," I assured him. "Come get me now. Please."

"Where are you?" he asked.

I looked around, but everything was hazy. And dark. And confusing.

"I'm on Willow Road somewhere. I'm not sure where."

"Jesus, Katrina, you don't know where you are?"

"It's dark," I explained. "And my vision's not right. And I don't have my glasses."

"Are you near Azionaqua?" he asked.

"Somewhere around there," I promised him. "Just come find me. Now. Please. Hurry."

Then I hung up the phone and promptly vomited all over the side of the road.

Afraid to stop completely, I continued to walk. Until I stopped to vomit again. Then I walked a little more.

At some point, Chris found me. At some point, he loaded me up in the car. I don't remember any of it. Apparently, I was a bit of a mess on the drive home. He claims I passed out briefly, tried to talk but mumbled unintelligibly instead, and was unable to focus on his face while he was talking to me. Apparently, he also informed me that if I wasn't able to communicate with him within the next four minutes, he was loading the kids up and we were going to the ER.

I hate the ER.

When we arrived home, he forced some salt water into me. He fed me a banana, spooned some peanut butter into my mouth. I threw up again, and he gave me more water. Eventually, I was able to get it together enough to get out of the car and inside the house.

"I won't take you to the ER if you PROMISE you'll do everything I say tonight," Chris informed me. In my right mind, I would have been giggling about the implied sexual innuendos in his statement, but in my I'm-Entirely-Fucked-Up mind, I simply agreed.

For the next hour, he rehydrated me with salted water and potassium-laden snacks. He helped me shower, and I sat shivering in my flannel pajamas and old-woman robe while he actually fed me SALT water. Yuck.

When I was coherent enough to realize that I didn't complete my 18 miles, I cried.

"I'm never going to be able to do this!" I sobbed. "I can't run more than 16 miles!"

"Oh, for the love of God!" Chris replied. "Would you GET IT TOGETHER?!"

He doesn't tolerate a whole lot of self-pity.

"The kids didn't see me acting like a drunk, did they?" I asked.

"Not tonight," he replied.

The next day, I asked George if he'd seen me when I was sick.

"No," he said. "Dad wouldn't let us. You must have looked pretty bad."

Indeed.

And so, my friends, this body of mine failed me once again. I'm not so sure I like that. I prefer to think of myself as invincible. And the saddest part is that it wasn't my legs or my lungs that gave out (which is what I've battled in the past), it was my entire being. My whole body decided that 14 miles was IT Friday night.

I'm not pleased with the rebellion.

And lest you get all crazy and think that my body's revolt has to do with some fast-moving, single-digit mile counting, let me assure you that there's NOTHING FAST about my runs. Truly, snails keep a quicker pace. For me, it's all about the finish, not about the time. And if I can't even finish, well...

I know it's a stretch to think about my Mom and her battle with MS, but I'm starting to get a little glimpse of what it must feel like to have your body betray you in every possible way.

So, today, I'm treating this one like a temple. Water, water, water. Can't get enough. Lots of grains, lots of potassium, lots of good stuff. I'm cutting back on the wine, not drinking any on the days preceding my next long run (TWENTY MILES this weekend!).

I'm going to figure this damn thing out if it kills me.

Running and Writing

On Sunday, I ran 16 miles. For some of you that doesn't sound like much (yes, we have certain friends -- PAT -- who run in excess of 100 miles at a time, so 16 sounds a bit... wimpy), but for me it was MONUMENTAL. I've never run that far at one time. EVER. My dear, sweet husband met me every 4 miles with water. I even tried the gels that Ashley suggested.

"What do they taste like?" Chris asked innocently.

"Hot, raspberry-flavored _____," I replied. (You'll have to use your imagination.)

The first 4 miles were nothing. The next 4, not bad at all. I started to feel a bit sluggish around mile 11 or so. And by the time I got home, I was a Hot Mess.

While I was standing in the shower, I was fairly certain I was going to:

A. Vomit
B. Die
C. Vomit and Die simultaneously

I stepped out of the shower, immediately flattened myself out on the floor, and called for Chris.

"Honey, I don't feel right," I said as I -- quite literally -- saw stars. I've never really seen "stars." Even in the high-intensity, over-dieting, prone-to-fainting phase of my life, I never really saw them. As I shivered on the floor, I felt the out-of-control sensation of my body failing me.

"Well, your lips are gray, Kat," Chris replied with measured calm. "Don't move." He bounded down the stairs and returned in a heartbeat with a banana, a large scoop of peanut butter, and a vat of water.

"Get this in your body. NOW."

And although I was still fairly certain I was going to:

A. Vomit
B. Die
C. Vomit and Die simultaneously

I did as he instructed. Because, quite honestly, I've never felt quite so betrayed by my body. It was entirely surreal. All completely fixable, but a bit scary nonetheless. Lesson learned: proper hydration and nutrition is non-negotiable. Period.

This morning, I received a package from Bennington College. When Chris handed it over to me, I felt a very familiar sensation. Yup. You guessed it. I was pretty sure I was going to:

A. Vomit
B. Die
C. Vomit and Die simultaneously

"It's too soon!" I yelled at Chris as I shoved the package back toward him. "If I've been rejected already, they had to really HATE everything I sent them!"

I pictured the Admissions Committee gathered around a large conference table smoking cigars, laughing jovially, and pointing out all my literary shortcomings.

As I opened the envelope, my hands were shaking uncontrollably. My heart was beating faster than it did during my 16-miler, and I broke out into a cold sweat. No exaggeration. Who knew the world of academia and the world of chafing and stinky socks could merge so beautifully?

Of course, the envelope contained nothing more than a standard "We've received your application and expect to notify candidates within the next two months" set of materials. OF COURSE, they didn't turn my application around within 6 days spanning a holiday weekend.

And so the waiting begins...

To help pass the time, I think I'll go grab a banana and a spoonful of peanut butter.

First

Sam is "dating." Apparently, that's what it's called in eighth grade. When I was in eighth grade, we "went together" -- although I'm not really sure where we ever went. He'd be mortified if he knew I was blogging about this. That's why I've advised all of my children not to read my blog until they're at least 21.

SAM, IF YOU'RE READING THIS, STOP NOW! YOUR 21ST BIRTHDAY IS ONLY SEVEN YEARS AWAY. BE STRONG.

His new girlfriend is a sweet, pretty, quiet girl. I hope she doesn't get eaten alive in this loud, obnoxious, irreverent family. Her primary interests are reading and writing. Yup, I love her already. And I absolutely adore her parents. Mama is very, very happy with this Big First.

I'm treading lightly around this even though I'm bursting at the seams for DETAILS, DETAILS, DETAILS! I did find out that he actually talked to her when he asked her to "go out with him." Thank God Almighty this is not a text-based relationship.

When he told me about his new love interest, his face turned at least ten shades of purple. But he offered the information up freely.

I like the way this has gone so far.

His new girlfriend's mom texted me after tucking her daughter in to say, "she had a sweet smile on her face" when she talked about Sam. Sweet smiles and purple faces. Love, love, love it!

I talked to him today about being respectful, about treating her like a queen, about not caving to the whims of his eighth grade friends. "I'm not dumb, Mom," he said. "I know, Sam, but you ARE thirteen."

The best part of this whole deal so far? Mary Claire's reaction. She came busting through the garage door on her way home from school today yelling, "OMG!! I can't believe you have a GIRLFRIEND! I thought you were going to be lonely FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!!!"

She then followed that outburst with an adamant, "I would NEVER date you!"

Good idea, Mary Claire.

Another One Bites the Dust

Summer, that is. Today marks the beginning of grades 8, 6, 5, and 3 for my tribe. A new school year, many life changes in store, lots of excitement to look forward to.

Blogging has been light lately. I know. I KNOW, JODY. But I'm making my comeback. Here's a quick run-down of where we sit in our lives...

CHRIS: 45 pounds lighter, job change, finishing his dissertation, soon to be called "Dr. Willis," new business venture with some pretty fantabulous partners, goatee, lovah, on the edge of 40.

KATRINA: 60 pounds lighter, training for a marathon, just finished VIA with the amazing Indy 58, peddling her memoir (Table for Six: The Extraordinary Tales of an Ordinary Family) to agents, finishing up her next novel (See How They Run), applying to Bennington College (alma mater of my beloved Donna Tartt) to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing, five sizes smaller than this time last year, still wrangling 4 unruly and surprisingly fun children (who knew I'd love the elementary and middle school years so much?), summer blonde hair that's bordering on "Pamela Anderson-tacky," madly in love with my goateed spouse.

It's the Year of Reinvention for the Willis adults.

We've been on an off-road journey for the past six months or so. From contemplating a move to Washington to nearly hosting a "For Sale" sign in our yard on numerous occasions, from crying about the unknown to embracing whatever adventures show up at our doorstep, from worrying about scarring our children for life to teaching them to see through a different set of eyes, from preparing to pack up and leave all that we've ever known and loved in our wake to beginning a new business right in the safety and familiarity of our own backyard, from a breast cancer scare to visiting two of our parents rooming two doors apart in the ICU -- it's been a wild ride, indeed.

And what have we learned?

Well, lots.

Most importantly, we've learned about What Matters.

And as a classic over-sharer, I've learned the beauty of mystery and intrigue. When people knock on my door or accost us at the Farmer's Market with questions and comments and stories about our lives, I've learned the thrill of an enigmatic, Mona-Lisa smile that says, "Go ahead and have your own story." I feel a little Cindy Brady-ish. I sometimes want to chant, "I've got a secret! I've got a secret!" But so far, I've been able to refrain.

Because, after all, our stories are just stories, aren't they? Like one big game of "telephone," we hear a few tidbits, process them in our own unique way, and pass them on to the next person who gets to start the process all over again. I'm no longer about taking away someone's story. It's not mine to take.

But they're damn entertaining to listen to.

Even Her Smile Is Changing

Along with every other physical feature that once helped define her for me, my dear Mother's smile is changing. When I was young -- when she was young -- it was unencumbered. It was bright, joyful, radiant. It amplified the beauty of her head-turning face.

It was sunshine.

Today, that face is just as beautiful. But it's different, too. It's fragile somehow, etched by years of laughter, pain, loss, and happiness. Sixty-nine years have come and gone in my Mom's life. For forty of those, I've been with her.

Sometimes it's hard for me to imagine what she was like before me, before Carrie. It was always the three of us, a united front in this crazy world. But she was once a child like my Mary Claire, once a teenager with a gap-toothed grin who dated the handsome football star. The Golden Couple. That's what my Mom and Dad were called in high school. When Carrie and I were little, she was beyond social. She had a vast array of friends and would-be suitors. She ably balanced her time between mothering and playing. She never thought twice about fulfilling her own needs -- about putting her own oxygen mask on first -- so she could better parent her two young girls. And for that decision, I have so much respect.

Now she has sweet Bob to stand beside her with his patience, his kind and generous heart. He administers her medicine, shuttles her to and from her appointments, brings her dinner in bed when the pain in her legs won't subside.

She is changing. Every day, she's changing.

She stayed overnight with me this weekend. And caring for her was more challenging than ever before. She's so weak, so worn down by illness. She moves so slowly, her conversations require such effort. I can remember well the dinners we'd have at Weston Village Apartments. Dining on macaroni and cheese with tuna, she'd coax Carrie and me into conversation.

"How was your day at school, girls? Did you learn anything exciting?"

And she'd expect us to participate, to reciprocate. "The art of conversation means everything," she'd explain. "Be interested in whomever you're talking with. Ask questions. Look her in the eye. Be present."

Advice to carry me through a lifetime.

But now, my Mom's conversations are limited by the synapses in her weary brain. Sometimes they fire when she needs them to, sometimes they abandon her completely. She searches for words, but can't always find them. Frustrated by her own declining memory, she resorts to her famous sarcasm, her biting wit to cover her embarrassment.

She is never, though, an embarrassment to me.

When I hold her hands with their paper-thin skin to help her walk to the car, I am simultaneously shocked and saddened by the age spots, the bruises, the gnarled knuckles that betray her years. As a young girl, those hands held me, comforted me, supported me, sustained me. I think about pictures of my Mom as a beautiful, vibrant woman -- the wind in her hair on a Hobie Cat, her ready and contagious smile.

She was loved by so many, treasured by all who knew her. She'd laugh with Sister Helen Therese, vacation with Patti and Jimmy, sail with Janet and Mike. Never, ever a third wheel -- always the life of the party.

Still she is treasured, still she is loved.

But even her smile is changing. It's tentative now, guarded, as if perhaps it might pain her to allow that beautifully wrinkled face to submit to a full, unguarded smile.

I feel as if I'm standing at a crossroads with my beloved Mom. From cared for to caregiver in one small step. From needy to needed.

Yet always -- always -- loved without limits.

All the News That's Fit to Print

Much to my friend Jenny's dismay, I stopped reading the newspaper a long time ago. I'm not sure what pushed me over the edge. It might have been the bloody and daunting headlines. (If I'm going to read something dark, I'd like for it to be fictitious.) It could have been my personal obsession with the obituaries. Perhaps it was my aversion to the tedium of coupon-cutting and the good ole Catholic guilt I experienced when I didn't engage in this particular money-saving means for my family.

Whatever the reason, the newspaper has lost it's appeal for me. And as you all know, I haven't watched TV for over two years. I've given myself completely and wholly over to books. Good books, bad books, well-written books, books filled with drivel. I devour them all. I may not be able to adequately discuss national elections or local happenings at your next party, but I'll be damned if I can't give you some good book recommendations. (Although Jenny would beg to differ...)

As of late, when something worth noting appears in the paper, Jenny mentions it to me or sends it my way. And what a gem she sent today! Hold onto your hats, my Writer Friends. And let me introduce you to "I Write Like" -- the website that analyzes a snippet of your work and reveals the famous author whose writing most closely resembles your own.

Go ahead. Try it.

 http://iwl.me/ 

When I plugged the first chapter of my latest novel in, "I Write Like" determined that I write like...

Wait for it...

MARGARET ATWOOD!

(I know you just got weak in the knees, Nicole. I know. Go ahead and pull out your dog-eared copy of "The Handmaid's Tale" and re-read it during your world travels.)

It's true, friends. I was compared by a random website analysis to one of Canada's quirkiest, darkest, and most brilliant writers. (At least in my humble opinion.)

Next, I plugged in a bit of my memoir and got...

Dan Brown.

Far less exciting for me. I said to Chris over dinner, "But I don't really even like Dan Brown. That must mean the section I plugged in was far too wordy and overly descriptive."

And my husband merely replied (with dollar signs in his eyes), "YOU may not like Dan Brown, Honey. But. Millions. Of. Other. People. Do. Ron Howard liked him enough to sign some multi-million dollar movie deals with him. That can't possibly be a bad thing."

And the capitalist in me instantly felt much better about being Dan Brown-ish.

I realize that some random algorithm lies behind the magic of "I Write Like" and that there is no real merit to the results. I get that it's probably just a smidgen more sophisticated than the Magic 8 ball of my childhood.

But I don't give two shits.

I'm going to continue to plug my words into the damn screen -- ad nauseum -- and see what happens. And on the day I'm compared to my beloved Julia Glass or Donna Tartt... well, then I'm pretty sure my life will be complete.