Same Party... Different Venue

Dear Faithful Followers,

I have a new website! From now on, all of my blogging will take place at www.katrinaannewillis.com. There will be some aesthetic changes happening, but the URL will remain the same. Please join me there!

If you're interested in reading some of my hubby's educational and family insights, he'll now be blogging at www.willistribe.com.

Oh! And in case you hadn't heard, my memoir, "Table for Six," is now available on Amazon:

http://tinyurl.com/69bp885

And on Barnes and Noble:

http://tinyurl.com/4zc6ufj

Please become a "Fan" of my author page on Facebook:

http://tinyurl.com/4bntjms

And then I'll leave you alone. :)

Stop by, download a copy of "Table for Six," and enjoy!

Flying Lessons

Having a house on the market while you're still living in it is a lot of work. With four kids, two dogs, and a guinea pig to contend with, the work seems exponentially larger. I must admit, though, that this time isn't as tough as the last time. When we had four kids under the age of 6, selling a house was much more challenging. The toys... oh, the toys! And my mental state... oh, my mental state! Back then, I think my kids spent more time strapped in their car seats while I ran willy-nilly throughout the house than they did in the comfort of their own abode.

When we put the house on the market in December, I wasn't quite ready. Yes, my head knew it was time. But my heart hadn't yet caught up. Then our realtor extraordinaire suggested we start packing things up, thinning things out, de-cluttering. "You're moving, anyway. Might as well get some of the work done ahead of time."

And so we packed and purged and invited Amvets to come take the piles of "stuff" we hadn't looked at in years.

Then our "stager" came over and suggested a mere three pages of changes we could make to help our house show better. And so, we took down the kids' wall murals, moved some excess furniture to the garage, removed all our personal pictures.

The house doesn't seem quite like home anymore.

Slowly but surely, it's morphing into a place where we rest our heads at night, but one that we're not so attached to anymore. Once we removed all of our personal items, it made the prospect of letting go a bit more palatable.

I think, in many ways, it's like raising kids. I always worried about how I was going to kiss them each goodbye on their first day of kindergarten. When the time came, however, they were ready, I was ready, the goodbyes were not bittersweet, but tinged with excitement and adventure. I often wonder what it will feel like to send my kids off to college. But when I talk to my friends who have already traveled that path, they say, "You'll be ready. God works mysteriously that way. You'll want to kick your lazy, sullen teenager out of the nest so he can spread his wings and make his own way in the world."

And so, I suppose, it will be when they find the loves of their lives and walk down the aisle -- when they gift me with new daughters-in-law, with a new son-in-law. And then Chris and I will stand hand in hand ready to travel, to visit grandbabies, to revel in the silence and serenity that we knew in the early years of our marriage.

Selling a house is a bit like raising children. The little goodbyes, when they come, aren't quite as heartbreaking as we once imagined. When it's time to move on, there's no sense in holding tightly to what used to be. Embracing what is yet to come with open arms and trust and courage is the only way to grow.

The more we neutralize the place we call home, the less it feels like home. Every time we take down a family picture, a tiny bit of our future is revealed to us -- the future that exists outside these four walls. With every passing day, with every showing, the adventure that awaits us becomes more apparent.

And I am becoming -- bit by bit -- more ready to embrace it.

When we walk out of this house for the final time, I will take hold of my children's hands (at least the ones who won't scoff at me when I do it. Okay, Mary Claire is the only one will hold my hand...), grab my husband by the heart, and fly.

With every passing day, my wings are growing stronger.

Voice Mails from My Mom

Andi and I are going to start a new blog that features voice mails from our mothers. We both love our mothers dearly, but must admit that their technological skills are lacking and their ability to ramble on aimlessly is second to none.

Because I can't yet figure out how to transfer my mom's voice mails to the blogosphere (perhaps that lack of technological prowess is an inherited trait), I'm going to provide you with a transcript of my most recent favorite...

"Trinks, it's Mom and it's twenty till seven on (pause) Tuesday. I just dialed your number... what I thought was your number... and got this foreign person and I thought it was Sammy acting silly. (Laughs.) I started talking like the foreign person and then they handed the phone to someone else and the kid said, 'Well, who do you want? Who do you want?' I said, 'I think I have the wrong number.' Anyway, your card came today and it was adorable and Janet called me this morning and said, 'Trina looks like a school girl in that picture.' And I said, 'That's what I keep telling her.' (Pause.) Oh! I found a pair of glasses in the twin bedroom and they're very thick glasses. I wondered if Sammy was missing a pair. They're kind of small. So... can you call me back? Love you guys. Bye."

Seriously. I can't make this shit up. I adore my mom and everything about her. She has progressed from saying, "Trina? Are you there? Pick up if you're there!" into my voice mail, but she still never ceases to make me giggle.

Wins and Losses

I've been thinking a great deal about loss lately. And when I say "loss," you're conjuring up a negative connotation, aren't you? Yeah, me, too.

But I don't necessarily think that's always the case.

Over the past year and a half, I've lost nearly 70 pounds. On my way to 100, I'm morphing into a new human form. I've lost lots of jiggly fat, 6 dress sizes, and a Suburban full of clothes that no longer fit. I've lost physical discomfort, excessive sweating, painful red marks around my belly from too-tight waistbands, late-night bingeing urges, and granny panties.

But I've gained so much more. Self-confidence, self-awareness, strength, stamina, some hot new clothes, energy, and enthusiasm. The funny thing, though? I'm still exactly the same person -- I just look different. And by looking different, I feel different. I'm thinking about myself differently. I'm projecting myself differently. But I'm still the same old me.

We're in the process of "losing" the hometown we've known for 10 years -- the only home our kids truly remember. We're selling our house and we're going to lose our financial asses. Originally priced below what we paid, we've already dropped the ask by $20,000. The market has changed, our country is in a financial crisis. Our house is just one tiny piece of sand on a shore of financial instability. And before, this situation would have made me weepy and afraid. Now, I realize it is simply what it is. We lose money, we make money. We buy homes, we sell homes, we lose our asses on homes. We get the opportunity to follow some pretty big dreams. If those come at a cost, we're willing to pay it.

Life is too short to cling so tightly to the things that don't really matter in the long run.

This past year, we lost an integral piece of our lives -- friends we've had for many, many years. Friends who know us best, have seen us at our worst, and who decided they no longer trusted in us or wanted to be a part of our lives. It's a grand loss in so many ways. In fact, there is a friend-sized hole in my heart that may heal someday, but will always leave a scar. In this loss, I gained some perspective. I realized that I no longer wanted to walk on eggshells, to be accused of being wrong all the time, to wonder when the next explosion was going to occur, to be judged. I will always love my friend dearly, but we were no longer serving each other. It's been evident for some time now that we were heading down a one-way path... and that going back would not be easy. That it might, in fact, be impossible. Losing a beloved friendship is painful, searing, often times agonizing. But the good news is that we're both still alive, we're both still breathing, we're both still functioning, thriving, moving forward. She has a beautiful family and abundant blessings. Perhaps she'll find a friend who better meets her needs. Maybe she already has. We were good for each other once. She taught me many things -- is a critical piece of the 40-year-old that I am today. That history can never be relinquished. It will, in fact, be the basis for many of my tomorrows. Ultimately, that can't be considered a loss, even if it looks that way from the outside.

It's just an unexpected turn in the road.

Kahlil Gibran makes me smile and nod when he says, "When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." I have been weeping for my friend. There was much happiness and laughter and joy and delight in our friendship. For that, I will always be grateful.

A few days ago, I finished "An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination." Highly recommended by my dear friend, Mary, I was reluctant to read the account of a stillborn child. And now I can't get Elizabeth McCracken and Pudding out of my head. As the grieving author moves through the first few days after her infant son's death, she quotes, "You see, I'd thought he was a sure thing."

"I'd thought he was a sure thing."

So much of my life has been believing in the "sure thing," searching for the "big truth," the assurance that nothing will change. But everything changes. And it can happen in the blink of an eye. Elizabeth McCracken's loss is -- in my estimation -- the worst kind of loss possible. To outlive a child, I think, is the most devastating of tricks that can befall us on this earth. Inevitably, there are lessons to learn from that kind of loss. And they are lessons I never want to learn.

My children are home for the next four days. (Although they've only been back in school for two weeks, some higher power decided that now was a good time for a long weekend.) Yes, they'll drive me nuts. Yes, we'll laugh with crazy abandon. Yes, we'll run the gamut of emotions.

My fourteen-year-old will get sent to Planet Mean. That's where he goes when his jackass attitude goes over the top. Planet Mean is a place that looks shockingly similar to his bedroom, but there are no phones, no electronics, no Xbox Live. On Planet Mean, he gets to engage in some self-reflection -- he gets to think about why he is choosing to be a jerk and what might constitute a better choice. For hours at a time.

Gus will loiter around me aimlessly. I'll ask if there's something he needs, and he'll shake his head "no." He'll sidle off to the kitchen and grab a quick snack from the pantry. Then another. Then another. Then he might share a long-winded story with me about an iPhone app that is so relentlessly uninteresting I'd just as soon chew my own arm off than engage with it. Then he'll complain about his siblings being nasty to him and leaving him out of their reindeer games.

Mary Claire will inevitably have a high-drama moment. At some point in the next four days, she'll cry like the world is coming to an end because she's had to "break up" with a friend or because we won't let her have a sleepover with 15 other hormonal 10 and 11-year-old girls.

And George. George will be loud. George will be obnoxious. George will burp and say inappropriate things at the dinner table. He will argue with his siblings, he will "forget" to flush the toilet, and he will annoy his teenage brother so much that eventually, something will be thrown at his head.

But I'll take those moments. Every single one of them. Chris and I will revel in them. We'll sit together with our respective Kindles and Nooks ordering certain children to Planet Mean and talking others off the emotional ledge. Because losing any of that? That would be True Loss. The kind of loss that could only be measured in empty, endless days and an aching, gut-wrenching journey through a life void of what truly matters.

Money, houses, neighborhoods? Those are losses that can be replaced. Friendships? Never replaced, but always treasured.

I am celebrating my wins today. Chris, Sam, Mary Claire, Gus, and George... I am celebrating you.

For Jill

Apparently, I'm not the only one creeped out by the Oompa Loompas. Although I don't have much to say today, I'm blogging so Jill can remove Sunday's spooky Willie Wonka picture from her iPad thumbnail. I can't say I blame her. There's nothing natural about having skin that orange. It's kind of like a spray tan gone horribly wrong.

Today was a lazy, stay-in-my-PJs, edit-my-book, and eat-Jello-in-front-of-the-fire kind of day. Hence the reason I posted this picture of Lucy. This is, after all, what she does every day (sans the PJ wearing and book editing and Jello eating). I used to worry about my dogs being lonely while I was at work. Now I realize their days consist of a whole lot of glorious nothingness -- with a bit of poop-eating thrown in for good measure.

Chris stayed home to work on his dissertation. Many couples say they couldn't stand to be home together all the time, but I love it when he's here. Even if we're working in separate rooms, it's comforting to know that he's just a loud and obnoxious shout away. And the fact that he stoked the fire all day while I sat on my ass didn't hurt, either.

My kiddos are home from school now, the snow is still falling outside, and all is well. Today might not have been exciting by many standards, but it was close to perfect.

Nothing To Fear

I'm releasing "Table for Six" as an e-book this month. Soon it will be available for public consumption on Amazon and Barnes and Noble (via the ever-so-awkwardly named, PubIt!). Anyone with an e-reader will have access to my words, my family, my stories. And the closer the release date gets, the more I drag my feet. I have edits to incorporate, comma splices to fix, repetitive adjectives to purge. But I find myself burying my brain in other people's books instead. In the past couple of weeks, I've finished five. My rationale is that I can't be a good writer unless I'm a good reader.

Chris says I'm afraid of success.

Perhaps.

I've always been one to over-think and second-guess. Is the subject matter interesting? Are the sentences well-formed? Am I revealing too much? Is the format correct? Would it have been better if I'd written it as a narrative? Will anyone want to read it? Does it suck?

As much as I'd like to say that I don't care what others think... I still do. Deep in a tiny little corner of my heart, I still have a sliver of that 10-year-old girl who wants to be accepted, to be approved of, to be loved unconditionally. She's a much smaller piece of who I am, but she's still there. The other 99% of me doesn't give two shits about what people think. But at times of great vulnerability, 10-year-old Trina's apprehensions hold far more power over me than I'd like them to.

And of course, it's easy to busy myself -- thus ignoring my writing deadlines -- with the day-to-day craziness of our lives. We've got a house on the market (seriously, who knew how much dog hair resided in this humble abode?), two kids playing basketball, two kids playing lacrosse, one kid playing volleyball, two dogs eating poop out of the back yard. I've got a husband who's finishing his dissertation and sending his curriculum vitae out across the country. I've got a Mom to visit, a great-niece to cuddle, friends to lunch with, a frog to feed, and a guinea pig cage to clean. I've got toilets to scrub, damn it! Sometimes there is no time to write.

At least that's what I tell myself.

The whole social media aspect of publication paralyzes me. Tweeting, Facebooking, website-ing, linking it all together, keeping it all up to date... it's overwhelming.

Psh, Chris says. You're just afraid of success.

And I'm afraid he might be right.

In the back of my head, I continue to hear Jenny say, "Fear is paralyzing and weak and serves no purpose. I will walk with you on every emotion but fear." Wise words, indeed. I don't want to be a scaredy-cat. Well, I'll always be afraid of scary movies. I think that's just part of who I am. And Chris really doesn't want to walk me to the restroom in the middle of the night for the rest of my life, so I'm going to continue to avoid flicks with titles like "Saw" and "The Exorcist" and "The Ring" and "Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory".

I'm forging ahead. But I have to admit there's still a little pit of something in the center of my belly. (And it's definitely not a carb -- because I'm back on South Beach Phase One.)

Is it fear of success? Failure? That horrifying Brad Pitt movie, "Seven"? All of the above?

I guess it doesn't really need to be identified  -- just ignored. As Sam would advise, "Suck it up, Cupcake."

1.1.11

There are a lot of ones in today's date. I like it -- it signifies a fresh start, the first, the beginning, a new chance to get it right, one more opportunity. Today, I'm sitting at my desk with a whopping hangover headache, but one that was worth every Advil and glass of water I've downed since we arrived home at 3:00 AM. We rang in the New Year with wonderful friends last night. We laughed, ate, danced, kissed, drank, and loved. It was the perfect ending to another year, the perfect start of something new and different.

In many ways, 2010 was a bittersweet year for us. I'd guess that's probably true for most. Because life is that way, isn't it? For every happiness, a disappointment and a chance for growth. For each smile, a tear. It's a delicate balance, this existence.

If 2010 taught me anything, it's that nothing stays the same. I met and made some wonderful, irreplaceable friends this year. I unexpectedly and heartbreakingly lost another -- one who has been a critical piece of my very soul for many, many years. In the year of this recession, most of my writing contracts dried up early. And although our financial stability slowly eroded, I had time to write another book, to spend with my kids, to lunch with my friends. And I would wholeheartedly argue that the money doesn't matter as much as the time. Chris's future career changed, then changed again, then changed a little bit more. Now our house is on the market and we're jumping into 2011 with open arms and an unwavering belief that all will be well -- whatever that "all" may be.

My friend, Shmee, wrote a beautiful blog post about the New Year titled "Sayonara, 2010." In it, she spoke of choosing a word for the New Year that sums up the feeling state you aspire to have instead of making traditional resolutions. I thought long and hard about what word would most accurately represent where and who I want to be in 2011. I contemplated it over coffee, studied the backs of my eyelids as I pondered it some more. (Okay, maybe that was the hangover...) And when it came to me, it arrived in a brilliant flash of "aha!"

Present.

I don't mean the "gift" kind. (Although I'm happy to oblige anyone who feels a strong urge to bring me gifts in 2011. I'm just a giver that way.) What I mean is that I intend to be present. To savor each moment. To know that where I am is exactly where I'm supposed to be and that every step I take is a critical piece of this life's journey.

Instead of letting myself feel like nothing more than a taxi as I shuttle my kids to and fro, I'm going to savor my time with them. We'll talk, we'll catch up, we'll sing to Lady Gaga. Instead of half-listening to Chris while I'm answering emails, I'll sit with him and give him my undivided attention. Instead of complaining about scrubbing the toilets for the 15th time this week, I'll relish the fact that we have yet another showing. Instead of worrying about what the future will hold and trying to plan for every possible bend in the road, I will enjoy the journey. I will appreciate the scenery. I will hold on for dear life as the wind rushes through my hair.

Easy? Not always. Important? Undoubtedly.

Every moment has meaning. Everything that happens in a lifetime is part of the experience. Good, bad, or indifferent, I resolve to live each moment fully. To accept the present that is presence.

Hello, 2011. It's nice to meet you.

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.