Running and Writing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get this in your body. NOW."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so the waiting begins...

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

First

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

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

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

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

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

I like the way this has gone so far.

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

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

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

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

Good idea, Mary Claire.

Another One Bites the Dust

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what have we learned?

Well, lots.

Most importantly, we've learned about What Matters.

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

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

But they're damn entertaining to listen to.

Even Her Smile Is Changing

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

It was sunshine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Advice to carry me through a lifetime.

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

She is never, though, an embarrassment to me.

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

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

Still she is treasured, still she is loved.

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

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

Yet always -- always -- loved without limits.

All the News That's Fit to Print

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

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

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

Go ahead. Try it.

 http://iwl.me/ 

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

Wait for it...

MARGARET ATWOOD!

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

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

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

Dan Brown.

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

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

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

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

But I don't give two shits.

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

Perfect Ten

She turned ten this weekend. Double digits. My one and only girl. My sweet and salty enigma wrapped up inside a riddle. That's the only way to describe her. She's like a rainbow (but not in a Skittles kind of way) -- so many different colors, never content to choose just one. She laughs and cries with the same gusto, she plays and works with the same fevered intensity. She is fiercely loyal to her friends, wholly devoted to her Mama.

She wishes more than anything that she could have a sister, but that business closed down a few years ago. Instead, she'll learn to be content with the stinky, loud, obnoxious brothers she has. The ones who peek at her private diary and mess up her American Girl doll homes, and sneak into her closet fort when she's not looking, and leave plastic spiders under her pillow. The same ones who will soon beat their friends up for making sexual innuendos about her, and who will dance with her in her beautiful white gown after she's said "I do" to the love of her life.

She's going to middle school this year. Barely ten, but bursting at the seams to join the ranks of the angst-ridden middle school crowd. Undoubtedly, she'll want to wear make-up before I'll let her, we'll argue about her choice of clothing, she'll slam a lot of doors, and I'll slam a lot of alcohol.

Later this month, she's going to get braces. She's choosing green and orange bands to decorate her pearly whites as they morph into an even more beautiful smile. She gets to change the colors every time she goes in, though, so I'm sure she'll cover the entire spectrum before her time is done. I mean, what little girl can live without the royal combo of purple and red?

We attended Amber's baby shower together this weekend. A storm was looming and she leaned over to me and whispered, "Can I please go get the umbrella out of the car before it rains? I don't want Nana to get wet when we take her back to the car. She's not so fast these days, you know."

I was blessed to sit with a friend during chemo today, and Mary Claire peppered the afternoon and evening with questions about where I'd been and what I'd done. "Is Mara okay? What happened to her? How does chemo work? Does it hurt her? Is there anything I can do to help her?"

She's a lover, that girl of mine.

It seems impossible that I held that sweet, quiet baby in my arms just ten short years ago. Ten more, and she'll be an adult.

Time is funny that way.

There's a nursery rhyme my Mom used to sing to me when I was little... "There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good. And when she was bad, she was horrid." When the horrid part rears its ugly head, Stacy likes to say that my girl's "Bitch Meter" is turned up full blast. And she has the perfect sound effects to drive her point home.

But I'll take the snotty back-talk, the exasperating and highly dramatic sighs, the "OMG, you're SO stupid" attitude, and the slammed doors followed by a full-blast rendition of "The Rose" if it means I can continue to receive the precious gifts of her giving heart -- her exuberant hugs, her infectious laugh, the little pieces of her soul she so willingly gives.

And the love notes? Oh, the love notes!

(And just as a side note, I might "take" her bad behavior in anticipation of the good, but I most definitely won't "take" it lying down. She's still not too old to be spanked. Or grounded. Or a combination of both. George might be destined for reform school, but there's still hope for this one.)

Happy birthday, sweet Mary Claire, my bright and shining star! I am so grateful you looked down from the heavens and chose me to share this journey with you.

Onward!

What Matters?

We just had a low-key, luxurious week on Emerald Isle to determine some true and meaningful answers to that little, 2-word question. (And let me warn you, friends, don't let the size and seeming innocuousness of that teeny-tiny phrase catch you off guard. It's a doozy. Stacy and Molly will agree. Andi, Nicole, and Liz will find out soon enough.)

Getting to the heart of What Matters is not a task for sissies. I have the tears to prove it. (I know, I know, Jenny! Waaahh, waaahh... Somebody call that effing waaaahmbulance!)

Undoing years heaped upon years of thinking that What Matters amounts to tangible things and academic degrees and social status, however, takes some time. And some balls.

Don't get me wrong. I haven't lived my life entirely in some kind of shallow, surface existence. I know there are things in life That Matter, that Have Always Mattered, that Will Always Matter matter. My family, my friends, myself, my world.

It's letting go of the things that Don't Really Matter that proves to be a bit tougher.

We're undergoing some changes over here. By choice. By design. By intent.

But that doesn't mean change comes easy. That doesn't mean people don't question, don't assume, don't jump to conclusions.

And what, exactly, does that mean? All that external shit? It Doesn't Matter.

Chris gets it. Always has. For twenty-two years now, he's been whispering sweet nothings in my ear, guiding me gently off the pathway of crazy, calming my fears, doling out my anti-depressants. (Thank God we don't have to deal with THOSE anymore. Just raw emotion now, Baby. What you see is what you get.)

And in my heart, I get it, too.

It's my damn head that gets in the way.

What will people think? What will people say? How will we be perceived? What if NOBODY LIKES ME? (Yeah, I know. It's pathetic, really. And quite frankly, I'm a bit tired of seeking my self-worth outside of, well, myself.)

And Chris's answer...? "Who the fuck cares? We know what's true and real and right."

It's a brilliant answer, really. Especially because he believes it so wholeheartedly.

I'm getting there.

But on the road at 1:00 AM when I'm overtired and sunburned and allowing the weight of the world to descend upon my shoulders... when the numbers don't add up and the unknown looms frighteningly in the dark and The Fray is playing "Cable Car" in the background... when our last bottle of vodka has spilled all over the back seat and the kids and all their belongings smell like a redneck, honky-tonk bar... when the residual grease from our late-night Bob Evans stop is still clinging to my ponytailed hair and a bowel revolt of epic proportions is threatening to make an appearance (that's Kenshatty to you, BFF)... when the 3-hour traffic jam wears down my last remaining nerve... that's when the tears came most freely and unabashedly. And let's just say that the mountains in West Virginia are difficult to navigate through snot and saline.

But when I thought back to my sun-kissed kids on the beach and heard their laughter through the crashing Atlantic waves (cheesy, I know, but oh so true)... and I remembered dancing to bad 80's tunes in the kitchen -- red wine in hand (Jim Z. Tumbler Style) -- with some of my very oldest, truest, and best friends... and I giggled about the unfortunate golf cart incidents (yes, plural) at Spinnaker's Reach... that's when I shifted back to What Matters.

And when Chris unplugged my iPod and plugged his in and promptly began to play the YouTube clip from "Parenthood" about Grandma's version of the roller-coaster ride versus the merry-go-round ride, I began to climb off the ledge.

And this text from my sweet husband pretty much sealed the deal... (Yes, he was sitting beside me in the passenger's seat, supportive in his silence. Yes, he knows that often, it's best to just let my instability run its course.)

"No matter what happens we get to experience it together and this is all that matters to me. I love you."

And there weren't even any typos or misspellings.

God, I love him.

And I always have been fond of a good roller-coaster.