BIG

Big. Day. Today.

I'm just sayin'.

Love you, Baby. You are a rock star.

The Lazy, Hazy Days

It's downright shameful how long it's taken me to post. I mean, I miss my BFF and all, but really? How long you all have to read about it? My apologies, friends. I have but one excuse...

SUMMER.

It's upon us in full force. Two short weeks since the end of school, and we're up to our eyeballs in swim team practice, nature camp, basketball camp, sleep-away camp, library reading incentives, pool visits, barbeques, softball and baseball tournaments, summer concerts, dinners with friends, and general fun and mayhem.

I love summer. Truly, I do. There is nothing better than a sun-kissed kid nose, a brand new smattering of poolside freckles, and some icy drinks dripping with condensation. Ahhhh.

We're in the midst of planning and preparing for our trip to Emerald Isle with the Fabers and B. The wisecracking Brian Beat Down has already begun and is setting the irreverent and side-splitting tone for the entire trip. It's a miracle that he even agrees to speak to us at times. But damn, that man can COOK!

We dropped Gus and George off at Spring Hill on Sunday. It's Gus's first full week of sleep-away camp and Geo's first sleep-away camp EVER. They're bunking with Carson and Ethan, so it should feel a bit like home -- without the air conditioning and unlimited supply of clean underwear. (I'm sure they're much more inclined to miss the air conditioning.) George indicated that he was a little nervous about camp and I asked him if he was afraid he'd miss me.

"NO!" he replied. "I'm just nervous. It's not about missing you AT ALL."

When I was packing his bag, he made one request: "Only boxers, please, and NO baby pajamas."

The camp is ultra-cool, and I know they'll both have a great time. They were transported to their cabins (Gus's cabin resembles a treehouse on stilts and George's cabin is a teepee!) via fire engine. I mean, if you start camp by riding on a fire engine, how bad could it possibly be? I encouraged each of them to step outside their comfort zones and try things they normally wouldn't consider. From zip lines to giant lake slides, they have plenty of opportunities for adventure. And if they don't melt in the 100 degree heat or get blown away in the Indiana monsoons that are appearing every day on the radar, I'll consider that a whopping success.

Sam has already completed a Teen Leadership seminar this summer that has him looking at the world in new and different ways. After his class, he posted on his Facebook status, "Just finished a long and tiring leadership weekend." I remarked that perhaps he should re-think the tone of his post because it seemed a bit negative. His reply? "Mom, what I posted on Facebook is neutral. You're the one assigning a negative value to it."

I think he gets it.

Sweet Mary Claire is swimming her brains out and getting ready to venture into the world of orthodontia. Big summer for her.

I'm still in VIA, working on my next novel (tentatively titled, "See How They Run"), training for the Indianapolis Monumental Marathon, have shed 50 pounds (and counting), am surrounding myself with some incredibly talented, loving, and powerful friends, and am loving and living life to the fullest!

But the biggest changes are in store for my sexy lovah. And those details, my friends, will all be coming your way soon enough.

Until then, don't forget your sunscreen... and your clean underwear!

Letter to a Friend

My dearest, beautiful, sexy, sassy, smart, exasperating, loving, irreverent, dirty, compassionate, stylish, best friend, Stacy,

Tomorrow, you begin.

After 6 months of sometimes frantic, often paralyzing, always exciting preparation, you leave for the adventure of a lifetime.

Africa.

Since the day Flowered Bag met Gear Head and we fell madly, irrevocably, unapologetically, irreversibly in love, you've wanted to journey to the Dark Continent. From your home decor to your shoe selection, Africa has been a part of you for as long as I can remember. Zebras, and giraffes, and monkeys -- oh, my!

Life has taken us so many places together. Now, as you journey to the far ends of the earth, my heart is with you -- locked safely in your own. As you brave the Nairobi airport, I will be there beside you, standing ready with my sweet Karate moves and distracting Jazz Hands. When you teach wound care to those who never knew it was an option, I will support you with my imagined medical prowess. After all, you know I was almost a doctor. If only that damn Organic Chemistry requirement hadn't reared its ugly head...

Physically, however, I will be here, standing guard. What your three precious children might need, I promise I will provide. They are, after all, like my own. Always have been and always will be. Fear not, my friend. They are wrapped safely in my arms and in the arms of those others who love them most. And nothing compares to the soft, safe arms of doting grandparents and forever friends.

When you return, I will be itching to sit around the fire pit and listen to all your stories. Perhaps we'll have Dave Matthews and Lady Gaga in the background. Maybe it will be Michael Jackson. ("Hey, Pretty Baby, with the high heels on...") But I will listen with rapt attention and red wine and will bear witness to the transformation in your life. Because, indeed, there will be transformation. You will come back the same... yet vastly different. And your ever-expansive heart will be bursting with tales of adventure, of healing, of love, of a world bigger than either of us might ever have imagined.

Please bring your giggling, giddy husband back safely with lots of trophies and tales. (Tales, of course, not punctuated with contractions.) My husband will miss his best friend, will also wait with Scotch and cigarette in hand to hear about his pinpoint shotgun accuracy and stories of the Bush. (Not that bush -- those stories will come after the 2nd Scotch, of course.) Together, they will scratch themselves and slosh their drinks and laugh too loudly and stoke the fire into a raging inferno. And, as always, all will be well.

One month away from you is a lifetime. I will miss you fiercely, will think about you constantly, will pray for you daily, will undoubtedly shed a few tears when I realize how very far away you are. But still, you will be beside me -- just as you always are, as you always have been, as you forever will be.

Before you go, I must wish you Godspeed. (You knew it was inevitable.) We can both laugh at my irreverent and convenient semantic choice, but ultimately, we both know that our one shared God will be holding you tightly with both hands as your plane takes off for worlds unknown, as your souls and hearts are forever altered, changed, expanded.

You will be the finest of teachers. You always have been. Your beauty, grace, wisdom, wit, and love will bring you an entourage of devoted followers in an unknown land.

Your adventure awaits.

I love you with my entire heart and soul, my friend. When you find the best hill upon which Ethan and George can raise monkeys as their babies, call me. After all, those monkey-grandbabies will be ours to love and cherish someday.

Holding you gently in my heart until your safe and triumphant return --

XOXO,
Katrina

Haiku Pour Vous

In college, I received an A+++ on a Haiku assignment. I was damn proud of that A+++. After all, how many A+++'s do you see in one lifetime? And I'd never even considered myself a Haiku master. Typically, my writings tend to veer toward the rambling and long-winded side versus the tight, succinct poetic form. (Shocking, I know.)

When I put together my first work portfolio, I included the A+++ Haiku paper. This decision resulted in great entertainment for my husband.

"Do you really think an employer is going to be impressed with an A+++ paper... on HAIKU?"

In my defense, however, I was applying for a job as a writer with Hallmark Cards. Of course they'd be impressed with my ability to wax poetic. (Obviously, Hallmark was not blown away. I made it through to the final cuts, but didn't ultimately land the Kansas City job. That, however, is a different blog post altogether. One that might aptly be titled, "The Darkest Hour" or "Fuck You, World" or something similarly angst-ridden and devastating.)

Throughout the past 22 years, my Haiku grade has become a household symbol of my need to be Right. Or The Best. Or The Smartest. (Insert your own moniker here.)

Some examples?

ME: Mary Claire only missed one on her spelling test.
CHRIS: That's good, but it's definitely not an A+++.

ME: I'm having trouble with this chapter of my book.
CHRIS: Honey, you got an A+++ in 1992. You can do ANYTHING.

ME: Why can't you actually pick up your dirty socks and put them in the hamper?
CHRIS: Well, obviously, it's because I never got an A+++ in Haiku.

You get the point.

So, here's where things get dicey.

I don't want to be Right anymore. It's so damn unattractive.

And what am I if I'm not right?

I'm so much more.

I'm open, authentic, loving. I'm a safe place to land.

I want YOU to be right. I want you to have an A+++.

And that, my friends, is what we call a shift.

So, today, I leave you with this...

Universal love
From an open hand and heart
Is most powerful

XOXO

Abundant Gratitude

Where have I been, you ask? Where have I been? Sit back, friends, and I'll fill you in. (Thank you for being so patient, Jody. I know... I know!)

After finding out that my boobs were going to be around for a bit longer, I began the Third Part of a Three Part transformative journey. This past weekend, I began a 90-day leadership and personal enrichment initiative and am proud to announce that...

I AM INDY 58.

(That's the name of my class. That's who I am. That's me, Baby. That's me.)

Along with 49 other people, I intend to change the world one person at a time.

And the story (because everyone has one, right?) goes like this:

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was put-upon. With no father, no money, no new clothes, no backyard baseball games, no house, she felt slighted. Oh, she loved her mother and her sister fiercely. She was grateful for the things she had, but always pined for the things she didn't. Why did everyone else have so much and she so little?

And she grew up living within that reality.

As she got older, she perpetuated that identity with her view of the world. She wasn't unhappy. She fell in love with a wonderful, giving, nurturing man and together they created four beautiful, smart, sassy, vibrant children. She had a circle of true and trusted friends who loved and laughed and cried together. Her life was good. But she knew something was still missing.

Often, she felt overwhelmed by what life threw her way. There was never enough time, never enough money, never enough of her to go around. She overcommitted and under-delivered like it was her job. She talked about her dreams -- and even worked on them a bit -- but she never truly believed in her ability to make things happen.

Then she met some angels.

With poignant whispers in her open ear and tough, soul-searching honesty, they began to help her see things differently.

Whisper by whisper, her view of her world and everything in it shifted.

Suddenly, the sun was a little brighter, her friends a bit more beautiful, her children's eyes a bit bluer, and her husband... uh huh. Yeah, you know what I'm saying...

When she was able to recognize abundance, to open her hands and heart in giving without expectation -- that's when the world tilted to embrace her. (Shit, she even began to cook!)

Today, I want to say thank you to those angels. (You know who you are.) Thank you for your wisdom, your guidance, your love without limits. By example, you led. You led me straight into the heart and soul of what matters.

And that's where I intend to stay.

Grateful

We got the call as we were leaving for the airport last Thursday.

"Mrs. Willis, we need to schedule a second mammogram to re-image your left breast."

A million thoughts flooded my mind. But the question that came out of my mouth...?

"I'm leaving for the airport right now. Can it wait until I get back?" I asked tentatively.

"When will you be back?"

I explained my itinerary and they scheduled my follow-up on the day after I returned from Denver.

"A doctor will be in the room with you to explain what's happening. You'll have answers right away."

And thus began five of the longest days of my life.

While we were in Denver, I touched my boobs more than I'd ever touched them in my life. Felt all the idiosyncrasies, all the asymmetries, all the bumps and striations. I had many hours alone to think about what might be happening, what I might find out, what course may have been mapped for me.

I spent anxious nights letting my mind wander and penned long-winded emails to Jenny who has brought me to a whole new level of consciousness over the past few months with her wisdom and guidance. And, as always, she stood beside me. But she made me promise one thing: no fear. She was unwilling to let me work from a position of fear. Anxiety? Okay. Unrest? Fine.

But no fear.

So I made her a promise and I gave up the fear.

And everything changed.

As our Denver days passed, Chris and I drank a great deal of wine and talked unabashedly about our future, our options, our dreams and desires. And during the course of that time, I developed a firm resolve to handle whatever came my way with dignity and grace. If I had cancer, I intended to live. I intended to be a bald, beautiful ass-kicking survivor.

And I was no longer afraid.

It's interesting to examine the thoughts that run through your mind during a time like this. I'd always thought that sacrificing my boobs for my life (if the time ever came) was a no-brainer. But these saggy, baggy has-beens once fed my babies. (Well, all of them except Sam. And Chris will argue to this day that my unwillingness to breastfeed our firstborn is the source of all his lifelong problems and insecurities.) My mind raced back to those foggy, sleep-deprived moments when I would sit with my newest baby in the dark of the earliest morning hours and calm, comfort, and sustain him or her with nothing more than my body. Those were magical moments -- the rosy-cheeked, half-sleeping baby in my arms, the gentle tugs, the milk-drunk smiles.

From the beginning, Chris was convinced that whatever the doctor was seeing on my films was nothing more than an overgrown milk duct. After all, I was a freak-of-nature milk producer. When a baby would cry in the night, I would aim one of those milk-engorged weapons right at Chris's face and spray him until he woke up. When Gus was in the NICU, I would pump and freeze endless bags of milk. The other NICU mothers would rejoice over their hard-earned half ounces while the bin in the communal freezer with my name on it overflowed, doubled, tripled. Once when I was adding more milk to my obscene collection, a NICU nurse looked at me and stated simply, "Oh, YOU'RE the one."

A milk-producing legend, I was.

I vacillated between wanting Chris to be with my at my follow-up appointment and wanting to be alone. But it felt right for him to be there. And that's where he wanted to be. Thus, we ventured into the unknown together.

After the 2nd mammogram, the technician came back into the room and told me that the doctor wanted to follow-up with an ultrasound.

That was Step Three, my friends. (OF COURSE I'D BEEN SEARCHING THE INTERNET.)

Step One - Mammogram.
Step Two - Follow-up mammogram.
Step Three - Ultrasound.
Next step? Biopsy.
And after that? Consultation that will alter the course of the rest of your life.

So, Chris waited in the ultrasound room with me, nervously drumming his fingers at warp speed. We didn't speak many words -- we just sat together in solidarity.

The doctor returned, performed the scan, and assured me that what he was seeing was normal breast tissue. In fact, he explained that the denser tissue on the left was actually more pronounced milk duct tissue than what he was seeing on the right.

I'll be damned if my husband didn't call it. I mean, he IS almost a doctor, but I'm pretty sure that an MD and an EdD are two vastly different things.

I was ultimately sent on my way with a clean bill of health and an order to come back at the regularly scheduled time next year.

And as we left the building, I truly felt like I might be able to fly. That's how pronounced the relief was, that's how heavy the now-lifted burden had been.

Today, I embraced my strong, healthy body. I jogged in the wee morning hours, met Jenny for breakfast, shared a mid-morning walk and talk with her, met Erin for lunch, and rejoiced in the everyday blessings that were mine to enjoy.

I am more than grateful. I am abundantly blessed.

And The Girls seem pretty happy that they get to stick around for awhile longer, too.

"Never Say Goodbye"

Bon Jovi, Baby.

That's what the GCHS Class of 1988 chose as our senior prom theme. I didn't go to prom with Chris that year -- we'd just begun dating and cummerbunds had already been matched and rented. I went with my very best friend (and my Mom's much younger love interest), Tim. We double-dated with Libby and Terry and after-partied in Brown County. It was a fabulous night.

But from 1989 on, I've only had one prom date.

Tonight, we're attending our 20th together.

I just asked my beloved to remind me what his senior prom theme was. His response? "I hope I get lucky."

He's so sentimental that way.

(His theme was, in fact, "Hold on to the Night." You can't argue with Richard Marx and pure, unadulterated, late-80s sap.)

Twenty years later, Chris is still hinting around at post-prom action. "That's what you DO after the prom," he assures me. "That's what EVERYONE does."

The peer pressure never ends, does it?

Not even when you're 40.

My best friend just called me and I answered the phone with my Valley Girl rendition of, "I'm soooo going to get laid tonight." (Sometimes I just can't help myself.) And the caller was, unfortunately, her 10-year-old son asking for a play date with Gus. "I'm really underpaid!" I wanted to shout. "That's what I said, Carson! I'm really UNDERPAID!" Chris was laughing so hard in the background that he damn near fell off his chair.

We've chaperoned a lot of proms in our day. Enough, in fact, that I'm hoping we'll actually be crowned King and Queen tonight. Kind of like bestowing an honorary degree on us. I'm going to wear a tiara -- just in case.

Prom night is one of my very favorite high school events. Watching all those fresh-faced kids wobble around in high heels and tug at their too-tight bow ties? Priceless. Seeing our babysitters in formal dresses when we're used to seeing them in sweatshirts and ponytails? Nothing better.

There's so much promise on Prom Night. Graduation looms, futures are bright, breathalyzers are being passed, sex is on the horizon...

And the memory of the sweaty gaggle of teenagers on the 1989 dance floor grooving to Paula Abdul and Milli Vanilli is a welcome walk down Memory Lane. (Yes, I said "grooving." When we weren't break dancing or head-banging, we were most definitely grooving. And yes, I mentioned Milli Vanilli. We were blissfully unaware of their lip-syncing scandal at that point in our young, innocent lives.)

After 20 years, I wouldn't trade my prom date for the world. He's graduated from mullet to gray, but he can still sweep me off my feet and make my knees go weak.

And the after-prom action? Well, just between you and me, he's probably getting lucky tonight. I have the power ballad 80s mix tape cued up and ready to go.

"Love Bites" can still do it for me.