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.