I’ve been doing a lot of self-reflection as we head into the holiday season this year. My uncle’s birthday was on Christmas. My birthday is on December 13th. He took his life the day after my 30th birthday on December 14, 2009. I've always loved this time of year and everything it offers: the anticipation, the lights, the crisp air and family get-togethers. The wine, gift giving, thinking of others and attempting to make their days merry and bright. But since 2009, the holidays have been slightly bittersweet. I recently told Ashlyn (she turns 12 on 12/29—another reason I love December) that Uncle Billy’s birthday was on Christmas and she asked, “Is that why you sometimes seem sad on Christmas morning?” I never realized my expression betrayed my feelings, but I'm sure there are times that I’ve been contemplative or lost in thought.

This year, I thought about all I’ve accomplished in my uncle’s honor. The silver lining is that this work helps other people and I am grateful for that. Not that he would want to be remembered for how he died (because I know without a doubt that as a private person, he absolutely wouldn't), but I think he would be proud that I'm helping to save others who are struggling. So this year, I thought I would do something a little different. In the spirit of “The Twelve Days of Christmas”, I pulled together a list of everything I’ve done in his honor and quantified it:

· $58,335 raised for this year’s Out of the Darkness walk that I co-chaired (goal: $25,000)
· $7,706 personally raised for AFSP/suicide prevention
· 18 months (and counting) on the CT chapter of the AFSP board
· 7 Out of the Darkness walks
· 4 years served on the Niantic Out of the Darkness Walk Committee
· 3 Talk Saves Lives presentations delivered to Aetna/CVS Health employees and customers
· 2 successful fundraisers at the Niantic Public House
· 1 year as walk Co-Chair
· 1 Mental Health First Aid certification course
· 1 Narcan/QPR certification course
· 1 invite to the AFSP Chapter Leadership Conference in Houston January 2022
· Countless lives enhanced or saved by this invaluable information and organization;
· and a partridge in a pear tree

December and the holidays can be a really difficult time for some people. Reach out. Have a real conversation and ask them how they are feeling. Earlier in November, Taylor Swift re-released her album “Red” (on her terms). If you have a moment, listen to the lyrics of “Forever Winter” which portray how it feels when you’re watching someone struggle mentally and emotionally:

"All this time I didn’t know
You were breakin’ down
I’d fall to pieces on the floor
If you weren’t around
Too young to know it gets better
I’ll be summer sun for you forever
Forever winter if you go…"

Go be someone’s summer sun this holiday season. Reach out. I promise you, you will make a difference. Happy holidays, everyone. #mentalhealth #holidays #grateful

Mental Health Month matters more than ever this year.

Note: If you experience suicidal thoughts or have lost someone to suicide, the following post could be potentially triggering. You can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741. Or call the Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255.

 

May is Mental Health Month. This year, I think more people will take the time to pause and reflect on these past fourteen months and what they have meant for our collective mental health than any other time in recent history. The isolation, the anxiety, the staggering death toll, the loss of financial security for people who had to close their businesses or who lost their jobs, the process of grieving even for the “normal” events we (and our children) were unable to attend…school, the office, birthday parties, weddings, holidays with family, happy hours, funerals. With very little warning, our lives were irrevocably changed in an instant one Thursday aftern in March and we didn’t even know for how long or what the magnitude of the extended impact would be. We went from thriving and humming along with our daily lives and routines to survival mode pretty much overnight. And we’ll be witnessing and measuring the aftermath for years to come.

 

Mental health has been at the forefront of many of my conversations these past few months both personally and professionally, as well as through my work with the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP). I think it’s one of the only silver linings to come out of this difficult time. While we all experienced the pandemic from different perspectives, various walks of life and circumstances, the bottom line is that we have now witnessed first-hand how important it is to be mindful of our own mental health; to check in on those we know and love; and to be aware of the warning signs if someone is suffering so much that they may be depressed or even thinking of suicide.

 

The importance of reaching out.

 

Many times, especially when we are so immersed in our own lives and issues, we may not notice the signs that indicate someone is struggling. If you are concerned about someone you know or love, make sure you know the signs and how to approach the topic with them. Being educated and proactively knowing the signs may be extremely helpful in case you find yourself in a future situation where you need to know how to react, and quickly.

 

Reaching out can absolutely make a difference, and it has for so many people. Since losing my Uncle Billy to suicide in 2009, I have reached out to many people in my personal and professional life through various avenues, including social media and real-time conversations, and I truly believe it has made a difference. I have also been published on The Mighty website that chronicles people’s real-life stories, and have been featured on Aetna and CVSHealth’s intranet sites raising awareness about the importance of mental health. By continuing to speak out, I’m actively looking to reduce the stigma surrounding this topic. I encourage those struggling to reach out for help. Reaching out for help doesn’t make you weak—it actually takes an incredible amount of courage to do so and should be considered a sign of strength. 

 

Being part of the solution.

 

This year, I am proud to continue my active role as a board member for AFSP and I’m honored to be the Co-Chair of this year’s Niantic Out of the Darkness walk (shameless plug: Register or donate today!) I am also preparing to deliver my first Talk Saves Lives training to 50-100 CVSHealth employees and customer representatives in early September. Those of you who know me well understand that this is out of my comfort zone because I have never been super confident in my ability to present and speak publicly, but this year I made it one of my professional development goals, and after several (non-mental health) presentations at work, I have to admit, at 41, I’m finally coming along.

 

In March, I had the opportunity to attend one of my AFSP colleague’s Talk Saves Lives trainings for an elderly LGBT population and it was a beautiful experience, hearing their collective stories and what they have endured over the years, and how they have come together to support each other. I was even able to help one of the participants with an idea for their peer support hotline by suggesting that the volunteers take the Mental Health First Aid course to feel better prepared for certain conversations and topics that may arise on their inbound calls.

 

As I once wrote in my LinkedIn blog post, Choose to Make a Difference No Matter What You Do: “Long ago, I made a promise to myself to reach out to others in their time of need. And I will continue to look for opportunities to make people’s lives better for the rest of my own life because I don’t know how to live any other way.” I truly believe this is my calling in life—to listen without judgment. To understand. To care. And to help and support this important cause.

She passes through a long corridor
Slowly, as if uncertain
She’s headed in the right direction.
Her auburn hair unravels
And she stops.
Tucks it behind her ear and continues.
She can’t go back the way she came
But wandering into the unknown
Seems pointless somehow.
She tries to find meaning, a purpose
to all that she has endured.
But it evades her.
“Who orchestrates this life?” she thinks to herself,
tearing up at the thought of what once was.
Or what she thought had been.
Her internal strength propels her forward
even when she wants to give up.
She won’t. She can’t. She has too much at stake.
Then her hazel eyes flicker with the realization that this feeling is fleeting.
Temporary.
Someday soon life will make sense again
And be beautiful and strange, the way it always has been.
It may not be the life she anticipated
or even thought she wanted
But she will reclaim it as her own.
She takes another step.

The recent conversation around sexual assault, harassment, and the powerful #MeToo mentions has had me creating this blog entry in my head for weeks. I wasn’t really sure what my angle was going to be, but I knew I had something to say.

When I first saw that celebrities were the focus of this dialogue, while I felt for their plight and understood that they had to sort of open the proverbial Pandora’s Box on this topic, my initial reaction was “What woman hasn’t experienced this to some degree…way more than just once in their lifetime?” So I was glad to see Alyssa Milano raise this on Twitter a few weeks ago by asking ALL women (or people, really) to stand in solidarity with Harvey Weinstein’s accusers and share whether or not they have also been a victim of either sexual harassment or assault. She said, "My hope is people will get the idea of the magnitude, of just how many people have been affected by this in the world, in our lifetimes, in this country.”

On 10/16, I tweeted “I was thinking about this the other day. Why should the focus merely be on actresses and other famous women? #MeToo.” I didn’t share any details about my experience with this topic and I don’t plan to on here, either. That isn’t the point for me. But it’s clear from the sheer volume of “#MeToo’s” that we needed this out in the open and that we have an incredibly long way to go as a society.

I’ve been reading so many of these victims’ accounts and wonder when it was decided that we no longer needed to treat each other with respect or empathy. Obviously the behavior has been going on—and accepted—for years, decades…centuries, even. Which makes me shake my head in disgust. To me, the most fulfilling and rewarding part of being human is just that: making real human connections based on the mutual respect between yourself and another person. This brazen disregard for the victims’ boundaries, feelings, and needs is something that I will never understand or accept.

And so I come to the second theme in this piece: empathy. Which I write about often because it is embedded in who I am. But I’ve never truly written about this experience. I have talked to friends and family about it during the course of the past 17 years, but I’ve never put pen to paper until now. When I was thinking about human connection, respect and blatant disregard for someone’s feelings these past few weeks, this experience kept forcing itself back into my mind. It’s a different kind of harassment, but it still counts and I think that it’s finally time to speak out.

I spent the semester in London the fall of my senior year. For some reason, the majority of my flatmates (all 12 of us were from UConn) decided that they had no use for me. A few of them (and by that, I really do mean about 3 out of 12) were friendly enough, but for the most part I was ostracized for the entire three and a half months that I was there. My hair was frizzy at that time, I didn’t have the same fashion sense that I have now, I was a little overweight and I wasn’t confident in myself at all. I was quiet, reserved. I didn’t go to London merely to drink and party—I wanted to experience the culture and see shows at the theatre, go to museums and just LIVE.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when or how it started happening, but my flatmates started branching off into groups, usually leaving me alone (with the exception of our classes). They left me at a bar alone when I had had too much to drink and laughed at me when I came crying back into the flat because I didn’t even have enough money to pay the cab driver (He let me out anyway, clearly seeing that I was a wreck). One time when we were all heading out for the night, one of the guys uttered, “Ever think about who we would vote off if this were an episode of Survivor?” Lots of laughing followed. I ignored it. Another time, we were out dancing and having drinks at Cheers and two of the guys bought a round of drinks for all of the girls except for me. Then one of them looked at me, saw a half-empty mug of beer sitting on the bar, abandoned, and said “Here, you can have that one.” Then he laughed and walked away, leaving me alone.

I heard one of the girls talking to her sister on the phone about me in a whisper. I would sometimes get home from a day of walking around the city and go straight up to the roof where you could see the city. I’d be freezing but at least they couldn’t hurt me up there. I wouldn’t come down until everyone was settled in and watching TV. Writing this now is making me teary, not for what I feel now, but for the poor girl who didn’t know how to handle any of this at the time. I didn’t speak up for myself, not once. I tried to confide in the three friendlier flatmates, but they didn’t believe me—they thought that I was embellishing everything and that the perception was in my head. It wasn’t. And I wonder now if my experience could have been more positive if one of them had.

I’m speaking up to give that more vulnerable girl a voice. To defend her when I should have defended her at that time. I have 17 more years of life experience at this point. I am confident. (Side note: it took a LONG way to get here, but I honestly think that this experience was the first step in getting me there, ironically enough. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?) I am successful. And I still have empathy and would never even dream of making someone feel like they weren’t worthwhile of my time or energy. We all are until proven otherwise.

All I want is to feel safe. Lately, it feels like we’re all living on the edge of a knife. I was lying in my bed early this morning (like 4 a.m. early) wide awake and thinking. Snuggled under a blanket with my cat tucked in behind my knees, I thought, “This is really the only place where I feel completely safe.” Between people getting shot at the Oakdale Theatre last night, a drunk driver killing a 24-year-old Waterford resident the day after Christmas about five minutes from our house, and finding out yesterday that a good friend has stomach cancer (an 89-year-old friend, but still)…I just feel like the hits keep on coming. We had a beautiful Christmas and are so lucky in many ways, but let’s be honest—2016 has been a rough year overall.

I fell back asleep for a short time before Liam bounded into our room to wake me up, and I’m glad I did because I dreamt about my Uncle Billy for only the second time since he died seven years ago. And in this dream, he actually interacted with me, whereas in the first one, he was sitting at a table writing a note and I came up behind him and hugged him but he didn’t respond.

This morning, I had a dream that I was at my grandparents’ house in Waterbury (I haven’t been there since my grandma died in 1997). It was like I was going back in time and was looking through the window of their front door into their living room and kitchen. Grandma had these vintage Valentine’s Day decorations on the front window, and I took out my iPhone (clearly present day) to take a photo of just one for Instagram because I liked the feel they had to them. My uncle was behind me…and then the dream gets fuzzy for a bit, but the next thing I know, there’s talk of danger (I’m not sure what, either an open shooting situation or something similar) at a local school during a kids’ swimming lesson. I knew that one of our friend’s children was there and I needed to go.

Then it turned into me needing to go pick up my cousin’s girls, Samantha and Lily, because no one else could go. I’m not sure if they were in danger, but I felt panicked—I was only wearing a nightgown but knew I had to head out. I got into the SUV (my cousin’s), but some force, a negative force, had turned the car seats all around and messed with the steering wheel and locked the gate to the garage behind me so I couldn’t figure out how to escape. All of a sudden, I heard my uncle’s voice and he helped me unlock the gate and back out slowly. Before that, somewhere in the haze of my dream, he also gently helped me cut the tag off of my nightgown and he offered me ice cream.

Liam woke me up right as I was backing out of the garage in the dream, so I’m not sure what would have happened next, but all I can really say is that I feel oddly comforted by that dream. Since he died, I haven’t felt his presence even though I try and try to remember his voice and the conversations we had together. The fact that he came to me this morning after I was feeling completely insecure and sad makes me feel like his spirit is still somewhere, in a good place.

So I am feeling slightly better this morning, but I still really, really wish people would stop being so crazy and violent. It’s like you can’t even go a day without hearing horrible news, either somewhere in the world, somewhere close to home or in your own personal circle. I have been trying not to internalize so much, especially when it doesn’t *directly* affect me, but it’s hard. Being empathetic is ingrained in who I am and I don’t foresee that changing at 37. Will certainly be looking into effective coping mechanisms in 2017.

Her little hand pops out of the water to wave at me. She wants to make sure I had seen her back float. Her goggles are all fogged up, making her eyes appear larger and buggier than normal. Her ponytail is slicked back and flyaway hairs are matted to her face. She grins broadly when I give her the double thumbs up sign.

Right now, she craves my attention. “Mommy, I want to show you how to play this game…” “Mommy, come read with me…” “Mommy, look what I made…” And most of the time, I am patient. Even if I’m in the middle of washing the dishes or cleaning up (a million) crumbs from the kitchen floor, I pause what I’m doing to acknowledge her. Because I know that despite my current title of “Best Mommy in the entire galaxy—not just the planet” (she actually said that to me yesterday), this time is fleeting. Maybe not fleeting as in gone next week, next month, or even next year, but in just a few years, she’ll be beyond this. She’ll crave the attention of her peers instead. And while I’m sure she’ll secretly appreciate me rooting for her on the sidelines, one day she’ll no longer search for my face in the crowd to make sure I’m paying attention. Which is totally normal; I wouldn’t expect her to…but still. For all the people constantly telling me to “Enjoy this time—it goes by so fast!”, I.KNOW. I know. Wasn’t she just learning how to walk? Toddling across the hardwood floor, completely unsure of herself? I get it.

Tonight I helped her practice multiplication even though they’re still focused on addition and subtraction in second grade. She loves math (and I never did), so I figure we might as well get a head start and continue to encourage her early on. (Side note: I failed long division. Miserably). She was doing really well but ended up getting a wrong answer for one of the problems. Maybe because it was late at night and she had reached her limit, but her beautiful hazel eyes filled with tears as she put her head down on the table and cried “I can’t get anything right!” In that moment, I saw her baby face shining through, flushed cheeks and all, and pulled her onto my lap. I half rocked her and smoothed her hair, told her that she was so smart and that she had done an awesome job. She settled down after a moment (I think I did or said something that made her laugh) and finished the rest of the problems without any issues.

My baby girl is almost seven. Some days she is completely independent, going off with her friends, reading by herself, teaching Liam about the world…but some days she still needs me. For reassurance, for support, for compassion. I guess I’m just hopeful that the foundation we’re building now will keep the lines of communication open in the not so distant future. When she thinks she’s ready to take on the world (aren’t all 14-year-olds?) but perhaps realizes she’s not quite strong enough yet. When her innocent mind comes to the realization that not all people have good intentions. That kids can be mean. When she fails a test because she doesn’t understand the material as well as she thought she did.

Parenting can be really hard. You don’t always know what to say or how to say it. What we say (and what we *don’t* say) can affect our kids for years to come. Being absent also speaks volumes. No pressure, right? But I think as long as our heart is in the right place and we’re “on” about 90 percent of the time, we’re doing it right. So, hopefully, I’ll continue to be the “Best Mommy in the Galaxy” for at least a few more years to come.

Lately Ash has been asking a lot of questions about dying, about what happens to our bodies when we die, and if we're reborn, will she have the same family? (Cue the tears: "But if I'm born again into another family, won't I forget that I ever had you?" which I thought was a pretty deep question for a six-year-old.) A while back when she was maybe 3 or 4, we told her that most people live a very long time, until they're about 100. But recently she learned that her Grandpa Lynn died at age 52 because he was very sick and now it seems that she's been seeking meaning to every song and even reading between the lines of lyrics. When she heard the song "Centuries", she asked Jeff how long a century was and then later on at bedtime she said that 100 years isn't long enough, that she doesn't want to die. I said, "But the whole point of life is to enjoy each moment, to make lasting memories, to love your family and spend time with your friends." She bawled, "But we only get oneeeeee..." When she heard the song "Seven Years" in the car the other day, she said "Mommy, you're not anywhere near 60, right?" Her little brain is trying to take in and process so much but it's *so hard* to answer all of her raw and honest questions when we don't have all of the answers. Half the time, I'm not even sure I'm saying the right thing or putting her mind anywhere near at ease.

And night after night, she's been having bad dreams. It seems like she just can't shake this from her subconscious. One night I went in there when she was crying and asked what's wrong. "I had a dream that Daddy was kissing us for the last time." "Where?" I asked. "In bed." Then, "Daddy believes you can be born again. What do you believe?" I told her that I'm not sure, but that I'd like to think our spirit can find its way back here to live again. That's when she uttered her heartbreaking, "But if I'm born again into another family, won't I forget that I ever had you? I don't want another mommy and daddy. I want youuuuuuuu...."). A few nights later she started crying shortly after she went to bed. I went in there and asked what was wrong. She started again with "I never got to meet my Grandpa Lynn." I told her that I'm sure he loves her and that he would love to have met her too. "But how do you know? Can he see me? Is he sitting right there?" Uggghhhhh. Then she said "I had a dream. Daddy came to pick us up and you weren't there. And then you never came back again." More crying. I said, "How did you know I never came back?" "Because you weren't there and then a week went by and you still weren't..." How do you reassure your kids without being dishonest? I mean, we all know that we can't promise them we'll be there tomorrow. We may SAY it, but no one really knows for sure what's going to happen each day. It just breaks my heart to see her so worked up about these issues that are so far out of her control.

I did some research online because of course I understand that kids are naturally curious about death and I expected to have the conversation at some point, but I guess I didn't think she would have *so* many questions. It seems like most kids ask a lot of basic questions but then quickly move on. Ashlyn, however, has one question after another: "What are our options when we die? What happens to our bodies? Did Grandma have to move after Grandpa died? What did they do with his body?" The saddest part was when she said "When you and Daddy are gone, the only one left with me will be Liam" and I had a lump in my throat because even that's not a given. I don't want to think about it, but the fact that he is younger doesn't necessarily mean he will be there when she's 100 and he's 97 (and I say that because I literally can't bear to think of them dying any younger than that). Parenting is hard enough, but when you are responsible for making your child feel safe and secure and you aren't successful, that is truly the worst. I wish I had the answers to make her little brain shut off each night. I wish I could tell her what happens when we die...where we go...that we are reunited with people that we love...that we never feel pain or sickness or hurt again...that we have the same mommy, daddy and brother in the next life, if there is one...that we are okay without our physical body because it's the spirit that truly makes us who we are. ("But if I am born into someone else, then I'm not really me? Or am I me, but a different version of me?") I swear, she blows me away. I almost feel like she has already lived a former life due to the depth of her questioning and her ability to ask and understand these concepts beyond her short time here on Earth.

I know we all want to protect our kids from the harsh reality of life. We want to save them from the first harsh comment or criticism from their peers, we want to shield them from the tough choices they will eventually have to make, we want to hug them and tell them that they are safe and sound and always will be. But we can't always promise these things. What we can do is hug them and say, "You know, I'm not really sure what will happen, but I love you so much and we are here together right now--let's make every day count." I'm just happy to know that she trusts me enough to want my opinion even when I tell her I don't have all the answers. I don't shut down the conversation or laugh off her concerns; I openly talk to her, stroke her hair and do the best I can to explain life and death as we know it. There is no script for this. I don't even remember asking my own parents about it (although when I did, I am almost positive it wasn't as in depth or emotional for me). I'm not sure if everything I say is right or accurate, but at least she knows she can come to me at any time, with any question or concern, and I will be there for her. We brought her into this world and it's our responsibility to explain how it works when we know and explain that a lot of the world is a mystery to us. I just hope that her life is full of enough joy to make the unknown worthwhile. And that's the only thing that I *can* control.

Currently playing: Chanticleer's version of Ave Maria, the same version we performed my sophomore year in Chorus at Masuk High School.

During my freshman year at Masuk, I was completely blown away by my Chorus teacher, Mr. Gangi. He had such a presence; a way of speaking to us as if we were already adults living in the real world and not merely "trapped" within the constraints of our high school walls. He was also an extraordinarily talented conductor, had a beautiful tenor voice himself and taught us a lot about life, mindfulness and leadership through breathing techniques and other exercises (including a trust walk around the school grounds).

One day we entered the auditorium (all 150 of us) and he told us to find a place on the ground anywhere--in the aisles, between the seats, on the stage, etc.--and then he turned out all of the lights. Lying down, eyes on the ceiling, he told us to close our eyes and imagine that we were on a beach, lying on warm sand. You could have heard a pin drop. He walked around the room softly, occasionally speaking, "Imagine you are sinking into the sand. You can feel the warmth of it surrounding you. You hear the water lapping gently at the shore." This went on for about ten minutes until we were all there mentally, and then he said, "Now...let's sing Kyrie eleison." And from our positions on the floor, completely flat on our backs, we began to sing the most poignant version of Kyrie eleison I have heard to this day.

There are times when I wish I could go back and recapture those moments. Thankfully, even then I realized how lucky I was. I never took those five hours a week for granted. I made lasting friendships there...so many...and learned so much about who I am and who I would eventually become. I was exposed to a variety of amazing composers and works: from Rachmaninoff to Mendelssohn and Carmina Burana to Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring." While life may have felt stressful during the day for any given reason, Chorus was the place where I felt like I could honestly let go and give everything I had.

I can vividly see myself sitting on the stage in my overalls and Doc Martens learning a new piece...playing Tori Amos on Gangi's piano in the Chorus Room during study hall...figuring out the pitch pipe when I became Section leader of the Alto 1A's...and hammering my neighbor's back and participating in several vocal warm-ups at the beginning of each class. At the time, I remember feeling that life was so complicated (my journal entries are so dramatic, I barely know how I made it through each day) but obviously I had never experienced anything truly significant or traumatic at that point. I would give anything to relive just one day with that seemingly carefree and truly present attitude.

I'm sure there's a way to incorporate pieces of this mindfulness back into my life. It definitely helps to write about the memory and listen to the concerts that my parents recorded, but what I am really trying to get at is that feeling of peace...of sinking into warm sand, of focusing on breathing instead of stress and worry. I have actually come a long way in the past month--I've started refocusing on my own needs including running, re-joining Weight Watchers, and trying to take moments to reflect and think and write (or even read for pleasure) whenever possible. I feel like there's a way to incorporate music into this as well, whether it's joining a choir or fitting it in someplace else. More thoughts to come.

Patience. Lately I haven't had much of it. With myself, with my kids,with random people on the road, with virtually anything. I've been more aggravated, more stressed, more...rushed. And I am truly tired of feeling this way. It's exhausting. I want to be more in control of my day-to-day life. I want to be organized, relaxed, healthy and happy. And I am pieces of those things at any given time, but my ideal self is only realized when these traits all coexist.

A lot of it comes down to time. Well, time, organization and prioritization, but they're all related. I really, *really* need to get better at prioritizing. I try and take on too much in every aspect of my life. And when I take something on, I never put in minimal effort; I am generally all in. I respond to people quickly, I say yes too often, I most likely over-extend myself even before I realize what I'm doing. And then comes the paralysis. When I have so many projects/tasks/chores/plans/fill in the blank, etc., that I literally sit there, paralyzed, trying to figure out what to handle first. And then I continue to sit there staring blankly, attempting to organize my thoughts and write lists, sometimes to no avail, because it's too overwhelming. And that wastes a considerable amount of valuable time...time that I desperately need to be productive and successful.

And yet, somehow I am relatively successful. I do get things done, and I get them done well. But there has to be a way to be successful without feeling constantly tense or on edge. For me personally, running helps relieve some of that tension because I have time to clear my head, listen to music and do something beneficial for myself (the healthy trait above). BUT again, many times I find that I can't/don't make the time for running even though I truly believe it helps me focus and refocus. Why is that? Why do we find time for certain things and not others? Why are there always certain elements of our life that slide when we're feeling stressed or unbalanced? I want to take the time to figure this out because I truly think it will help my daily mindset moving forward.

I was talking to a colleague this week and she told me she recently started taking ten minutes out of her day to just lie down and breathe. I'll be the first to admit that I have never practiced meditation or taken a yoga class, but this sounds like a worthwhile use of time. But first I need to learn how to clear my head because I think entirely too much. About everything. I overthink. I analyze. I beat myself up over minor setbacks, both physical and mental. So in those ten minutes, I need to learn NOT to think of all the emails I could respond to in that time, of the laundry that needs to be folded or the kids' lunches that need to be made. I literally need to schedule time in my day, even if it's just ten minutes, to relax, to refocus. Because right now I don't feel like I'm reaching my full potential since it always feels like something has to give. I feel like I'm trying to hold onto and handle so many juggling parts that it's nearly impossible. I also realize that I am my own harshest critic, so there's that, but if I feel this strongly about all of this, there has to be an underlying issue that I can proactively learn how to fix.

This fall, I plan on being present, being mindful, being focused. I want to feel more like I am living each moment as opposed to rushing through it to get to the next place/reach the next deadline/check the box. If anyone has any tips or wants to share their thoughts, I am more than open to them. Thank you for listening.

Watching: the flickering light of my fireplace. Listening: to Bon Iver. Trying to reclaim that carefree feeling of non-routine life that can only come from time and distance away. Away from 5 a.m. wake- ups, the 10-hour work day, and just generally 7,600 miles away from home.

I recently returned from a trip to India. I didn't expect to, but I feel like I experienced an entire lifetime in those ten days. There were many firsts: a memorable visit to the Taj Mahal, receiving henna (already rapidly fading away), attending three days of Indian wedding ceremonies, dancing in a bharat, witnessing poor children from the slums jump in and out of traffic begging for food, driving through seven lanes of traffic with no real rhyme or reason...just horns blasting, cows, pigs, rickshaws and pedestrians entering the mix and somehow everyone just knowing their place.

A beautiful sunrise on the train ride to Agra...the blazing sun making its hazy orange mark on the horizon, shedding light on the pretty landscape that's occasionally marred by mountains of garbage. People staring listlessly as the train rushes by, seemingly lost in their own thoughts. Using the train tracks as makeshift bathrooms because they have no other choice. It's hard to ignore the abject poverty, but at the same time, there are so many layers of life in the country. People are everywhere. Carrying piles of wood on bicycles, getting a shave on the street corner, standing or running behind fresh fruit carts, congregating in front of shopping malls and open markets.

We took quite a few taxi rides during our visit. Each time I grabbed the video camera because watching the bustle of life unfold around you when you have the time and focus is amazing. There have been few occasions when I've been as immersed in a culture. Usually I have a thousand responsibilities and don't allow myself to take it all in, but this trip was different. I let myself experience everything as it happened. Mopeds scooting by with Indian women in saris riding side-saddle...boys playing a quick game of cricket in a dirt field...stray dogs roaming up and down the sidewalks and in the middle of the streets...

Music also played an integral role on this trip. The drum beats; the ethereal Indian tones carrying over a Delhi thunderstorm as heard from my dark hotel room; the sassy, pop Bollywood songs played at the Sangeet (that all of the young, beautiful Indian girls and guys knew the lyrics and moves to); the haunting religious chants piped through the air over the gardens across from the Taj.

And of course I wouldn't have even made the journey if it weren't for my family. I was there for my brother-in-law's wedding so there were many evenings full of conversation, wine, beer and traditional Indian food. Things I am thankful for: the comfortable feeling of the high-rise overlooking the city, the invaluable time I was able to spend with my two-year-old nephew, the thoughtful gifts I received: one pink, blue and gold dress that my brother's mother-in-law picked out for me that made me feel beautiful.

I'm not sure why the trip left such a lasting impression on me other than the fact that it was so rich and full of all of the above: color, music, vitality, love, family and dynamic experiences. I truly feel changed for the better after visiting India, like it left an impression on me and has slightly changed my perspective and perception of life here. I found it to be eye-opening and raw but parts of it were also muted, soft and beautiful. I love the fact that I was able to take it all in with an open mind and just BE for once, instead of going, going, going. In writing this, I almost felt transported back to that state of mind which feels good. I need to get to that place more often, and I think this trip has helped me learn how to meditate, how to truly exist and see what's around me. And for that, I am grateful.

I don't generally do New Year's resolutions, but there are a few things I would like to focus on in 2015. First, I want to write more, so I am starting with this blog post. To me, writing comes naturally and is very therapeutic but I rarely have enough time to create what I would consider quality writing. I need to make the time. In fact, making the time to do things is going to play an essential role in completing all of my goals this year. Last year I constantly felt pulled in a thousand different directions between my career, taking care of Ash and Liam, being a supportive wife and friend, staying healthy (eating well and running) and staying on top of things organizationally (like getting the kids signed up for various activities without missing deadlines, which rarely happened). I felt like my life was out of balance. While I put a lot of effort into everything I did, I had such high expectations of myself that I constantly felt like I was missing the mark which, in turn, made me more stressed. My body and mind were exhausted and I couldn't keep my eyes open past 9:00 at night. I even went to the doctor to see if the Lyme disease from the previous summer could still possibly be in my system but she said it was all just due to stress...no physical issues were present. I think sorting through my thoughts with writing on a regular basis will help me immensely.

And of course everyone always says they want to lose weight/go to the gym at the start of the new year. Not to jump on that bandwagon, but count me in. For all of 2015, not just the month of January. Feeling good about myself physically and mentally is incredibly important to me and currently I can't remember the last time I had the "time" (there it is again) to go running. It might have been back in October. The obstacles I've encountered in getting to the gym are legitimate; I am not merely making excuses because I don't want to go. There's school drop-off/pick-up on the days I work at home and I leave the house at 6 a.m. on the days I work in Hartford. The only chance I have to spend time with Ashlyn and Liam during the week is dinner, bath and bedtime so I certainly don't want to leave them for an hour to go and work out. By the time Ash is in bed at 8, the last thing I have energy for is running. I need to figure out how to schedule gym time during my work day again, and possibly one weekend day. That should be manageable and I will feel a lot better about myself. I have about eight pounds I'd like to lose but I'm not in a huge rush...all progress is welcome.

I would also like to work on being more present. Everyone knows that I love social media...reading news and articles on Twitter, keeping up with my friends, posting photos (and yes, selfies!), etc. But several of the articles and blogs I've read recently talk about living in the moment, putting down the phone and focusing on who you're with and what they're saying. For the most part, I am not rude about this. I don't keep my phone open during dinner or when I'm out, but I'll admit that occasionally I'll scroll through my news feed when the kids are watching a movie and I won't always catch a question or comment that they pose to me. I don't want to be like that. I want them to remember me as always there for them, playing on the floor, laughing whole-heartedly and truly listening to everything they have to say. I am trying to decide if this means I should also post less on social but I haven't fully figured this out yet. People make fun of me--well, tease I guess is a more appropriate word--for how much I choose to share, that I am "always" on Facebook and that I post too much. I think that this is all subjective. I get that my posts don't resonate with everyone but I love the connection that I feel with people by sharing and interacting with the material, so it will be an interesting experiment to try and keep my phone/computer at an arm's length.

If I'm being completely honest, I suppose my love of social media is tied to my desire to feel appreciated and to have my efforts validated. How those "likes", "favorites" and "retweets" prove that my thoughts are worthwhile, that people understand and *get* me. I have always been this way to an extent. I want people to like me (obviously) and career-wise, I want people to note that I put 110% into a project or that my efforts resulted in a successful outcome. When/if this doesn't happen, I take it too personally and allow myself to get completely wrapped up in thoughts of disappointment and...you guessed it...more stress. I have to work on this as well. I am not a perfectionist by any means, but I take what I do seriously in every aspect of my life and sometimes I have to recognize that it's okay to be a little less serious.

So obviously I have some work to do during the next twelve months. I want to practice patience and continue to exhibit compassion. I want to be present and engaged. I want to continue to work hard but to remember that balance is even more important. I will get to the gym more. I will drink less wine (this is mainly due to my caloric intake!) I think this will be easier to manage once I feel more balanced and less stressed. I truly believe that writing will help with all of this. So I plan on blogging more and really analyzing my thoughts and feelings to become a better person. Stay tuned.

The problem with writing is that I love it too much to do it half-assed. There are days when I write entire blog posts in my head while driving to work or playing with the kids on the floor, but they never make it to the page. There are other days when I open up this site, pour a glass of wine and *contemplate* writing but then realize I have no direction to my thoughts or nothing relevant to say at that particular moment. This doesn't mean I am not constantly thinking because I am...all the time. While making the kids' lunches, while walking to the mailbox, while drifting off to sleep. I mostly think about people. I don't waste time worrying about politics or events that are occurring halfway across the world because they are out of my control. Instead, I spend most of my life focusing on the people I care about (and there are many). I try and make their lives inherently better just by being a part of it. I love to listen, to truly listen, to what people have to say. Over the years I have certainly done my fair share of talking as well, but when I was younger, I was more of an observer. I think when you start out life as a shy, introspective child, you gain a lot of insight and perspective about the world around you. You can immediately tell when someone is hurt, even if the person that inadvertantly hurt them might not notice. You see and notice small changes in facial expressions; disappointment or sadness. You watch and take internal notes, or at least I did. I may have been too quiet to do much about these observations until high school, but I know that the time I spent both writing and observing during those formative, character-building years made me into the empathetic person that I am today.

So when I was sitting on my love seat last night and heard about the death of the beloved Robin Williams, like everyone else, my jaw dropped open and I almost ran off to Snopes to find out if it was true...but mostly an overwhelming sense of melancholy washed over me because of the cause of death. Suicide. I hate that word. I also hate the phrase "committed suicide." It's so cold. It sounds so harsh. I don't know if "took his own life" sounds any better, but at least it's less clinical. People expressed shock about his untimely death and I suppose that's understandable in a way, but if you are familiar with suicide and have lived through the death of an immediate family member, you know that depression can completely change a person's life view in a matter of months. It changes their personality and their physical appearance, their mannerisms and their routine. It affects their level of patience, their former passions, their every relationship. It may not be completely transparent to the public, but the signs are there. And sometimes there's nothing we can do to recognize how serious the situation is until it's too late.

The other day I was home alone with Liam. He went down for a nap and I decided to relax watching some old home movies. (In addition to writing and being empathetic, I am also extremely nostalgic and sensitive). These particular movies are silent because they were filmed with my parents' Super 8 camera prior to their mega Camcorder purchase in 1986. I watched my first day of kindergarten...blonde curls and blue crocheted dress with little brown Mary Janes and a white button-up cardigan. Care Bears lunchbox. And then I watched Ryan's 2nd birthday party, in September of that same year (1984). I watched my Uncle Billy come up the hill with my Aunt Margaret. He was a young 30-year-old, even younger than I am now. Sporting faded but surprisingly designer-looking blue jeans and a long-sleeved v-neck shirt. Young and happy as could be with his hot blonde (who had a Farrah Fawcett haircut, I might add!) Looking at them, tears glistened in my eyes because I did the math. In 25 years, he would take his own life. Would you ever have guessed it had you been in that moment? Would I ever guessed it--my four-and-a-half year old self running around the front yard in that video without a care in the world? No. I wouldn't have. Even in the months before his death (and I was 30 when he died), I honestly didn't think he had it in him, even after hearing that he had been experiencing depression. I pride myself on being empathetic but I didn't even notice it was that bad that he thought it was the only alternative. I fell on the couch when my mom called to deliver the news. I was pregnant and alone and thought I might explode with sadness...I had just spoken to him the day before on my birthday; how could this have happened? But looking back, there were signs. Even when I had talked to him on the phone the day before (he called! he did care and remember despite all of his inner demons), I know he knew it was the last time we would ever speak. It chokes me up to even write that now. But I know he was at peace with his decison, as Robin probably was with his. While we will never be able to understand with our rational minds, it is an illness and it is important that people are aware of the signs and of how to get their loved one help.

I heard some unsophisticated caller on the radio this morning stating that Robin must not have "given a shit" about his three children to do this to them. I was practically shaking with anger at that statement because it is so FALSE. So unFAIR. Of course he did. He just could not see any other way out. Imagine being that depressed and paralyzed that you choose death over your own children. THAT is how serious depression is. Be aware and reach out...help in whatever way you can.

Every year my family and I do the "Out of the Darkness" walk in October (there are plenty around the country, but this one is in Bristol, CT). All donations go towards research and education programs to prevent suicide and save lives, because suicide is more prevalent than you think: Suicide claims more than 38,000 lives each year in the United States alone, with someone dying by suicide every 13.7 minutes. A suicide attempt is made every minute of every day, resulting in nearly one million attempts made annually.

Let Robin Williams' death have just one silver lining: awareness. If you see someone struggling, be empathetic. Don't judge. Take the time out of your busy day to reach out and listen. It only takes a few minutes or hours but may make a difference. I know that there's nothing that I could have done to save my uncle, but I take comfort in the fact that I was there for him every time he called me that fall and winter. I cheerfully told him all about the events going on in my life and tried to make jokes and make him feel like his "real" self again. I am sure I wasn't completely successful every time, but I know in my heart that he knew I loved him and that I was trying to make a difference. Let's all take care of each other. Life is too short to do anything else.

No day shall erase you from the memory of time.

I rarely have five minutes to myself to reflect or think on any given day. With a full-time job, a preschooler and a toddler, it just doesn't happen as often as it used to. The romantic evenings of sprawling out across my bed, pen in hand, to write in my journal are long gone. Ashlyn wakes up around 5:45 or 6 a.m. every.single.morning and from that moment on there is a caucophony of sound in our house for the rest of the day: milk and cereal being splashed into a bowl, cabinets being slammed, lunches being made, brothers being yelled at, screeching and drumming and toddler feet running...non-stop chaos. While I wouldn't trade any of it for the world, there are certainly days where I crave peace and just FIVE MINUTES of silence to serenely sip my coffee while staring off into space.

On Wednesday I visited the 9/11 museum and memorial. I had about 105 consecutive minutes to walk through the space and reflect on a day that changed the world as well as my entire perception of it. I haven't felt that completely immersed in my own thoughts in a very long time. As most people know, I am a sensitive person by nature. Some people would say too sensitive and overly nostalgic. I always strain to find the negativity in it, though--when someone says, "Oh, you're so sensitive" like it's a dirty word, it just doesn't make sense to me. As a sensitive and young person (21!), even though I didn't know anyone personally affected by the tragedy, I took it really hard. I completely immersed myself in the news for months; eyes glazed over as I watched the camera pan thousands of missing person flyers, listened to panicky voicemail messages and witnessed the towers collapsing over and over again.

I think the museum is tastefully done. I know there had been a lot of controversy regarding how to display the artifacts from that day; what to display; and how to arrange everything so that it evokes the appropriate level of emotion and pays respect to the nearly 3,000 people that lost their lives. The space is massive...almost cavernous...and you are immediately pulled into the events of the day with multi-media messaging from news audio clips to witness accounts and photographs of people reacting to the smoking towers (I remember actually thinking "heads in hands" a few times because every single person, no matter what age or what walk of life, had their eyes raised up to the sky with a look of utter shock and horror and their hands covering their forehead. As if to convey that they literally could not believe their eyes. And they probably couldn't.) As you walk further down the hallway, a projector flickers the missing people posters on a bare cement wall. Tears came to my own eyes as I read description after description. I felt like my 21-year-old self again. Alone. Traumatized. Ruined of any shred of innocence that remained from my childhood.

The museum is located seven stories underground, so the original flood wall that protected the towers is still in place and serves as one of the walls on the lower level. The entire space has an industrial feel overall with the exception of the smaller enclaves that are dedicated to preserving the memories and sharing the life stories of those that died. Affixed to one of the walls is the three mangled steal beams that depict the exact point of impact where the plane crashed into the North Tower between floors 96-99. It's hard to look at...a complete visual representation of the evil that took place that day.

The other part of the museum that resonated with me and nearly moved me to tears was the preservation of one of the stairways and the adjacent escalator from the North Tower. These stairs were carefully extracted from the wreckage and placed in the museum. I found it strange how one flight of stairs could generate so many different thoughts, just picturing the people fleeing for their lives and hearing the rescuers shouting out advice to help as many as possible. I stared at these stairs for quite some time, just thinking of the thousands of feet that ran over them to safety...and the thousands that were unable to make it out alive. It is an eerie feeling to be so close to an object that had such an effect on the course of people's lives that day. There they are, just plain old cement stairs, and yet they tell a story that no one else can.

The next time I visit, I'd like to spend more time by the fountains. They are amazing in their size and depth, and an interesting and obvious contrast to what used to exist in that space. You can't help but look up into the vast, open sky and see a huge, gaping hole that will never be filled again. It's a poignant and sad reminder that 13 years may have passed but the fact remains that those people are gone forever. Everything about the site points toward reverence, but not in an overly religious way. I don't think the museum is for everyone, but it is definitely an experience you will never forget.

Can I just "aw" myself?

I ran outside today. It was 20 degrees. WICKED COLD. And yet I did it, anyway, and felt good about it.  Also, I wrapped up a 3-month-long project at work, picked my sick daughter up from daycare, and took care of her by myself all night from nap to playtime to dinner to bath to snuggle time to bed. Sometimes I am actually willing to admit that I rock. Today is one of those times.

When we were little, my brother and I used to go on day trips with my dad most weekends. My mom worked 3-11 so our Saturday afternoons were filled with museum visits, McDonald's trips, and drives to places like Hop Brook and Hamilton Park. Ryan and I would each grab one of Dad's thumbs and we would all walk hand-in-hand. I can still clearly remember the feeling of Dad's slightly rough, dry skin as I clenched his hand tightly. His thumb seemed so much larger than mine, which made me feel safe and secure. As long as I was holding Dad's hand, nothing bad could ever happen to me.

Now that I am older, I long for that same sense of security. I have witnessed so much sadness this past year: death...loss...heartache...vulnerability...and lives forever changed. I spend too much time thinking "what if" instead of being grateful for what I have. I wake up every morning and make sure that my husband and daughter are still breathing. I even check the cat. I know that sounds ridiculous, and it probably is to an extent, but I can't imagine life without any of them. And yet I have seen beautiful lives like ours ripped at the seams in an instant. I know that I can't count on everyone I love being here forever, but I want to do everything in my power to will them to be.

As my generation enters their 30s, we realize that our parents are in their 60s. Even if they live to their mid-80s or early 90s, that only gives us 20+ more years together...which means that we have already passed the halfway mark of all the time we have to spend with them. While a very obvious conclusion to draw, this thought saddens me.

Today is the one year anniversary of my uncle's senseless death. I have already written about him recently, so I am not going to into detail other than to say that I miss him so much. Yesterday was my birthday. Last night I found out from my mom that one of my brother's best friends lost his 28-year-old brother-in-law to an apparent heart attack. His wife (my brother's friend's sister) found him when she went home to pick him up to go pick out their Christmas tree. My heart just breaks for her.

I am sorry that this post isn't very uplifting, especially since we are so close to the holidays. I just had to get it off my chest. My thoughts are with everyone who lost someone this holiday season; especially Angela, Heather, Rose, and their families.

I am totally exhausted. I don't know how stay-at-home moms do everything they do. Or single moms, for that matter. Today Ashlyn was a little on the cranky side (verging on a lot on the cranky side at various points during the day) and Jeff was downstairs creating a presentation for one of his classes.  It was freezing cold outside so I didn't feel like leaving the house, which basically meant it was up to me to entertain my little girl for about 13 hours straight right here. We played with blocks and Legos and nesting toys and the Playskool Busy Ball Popper (which she LOVES!)...we read books and practiced standing and took a bath...then, this evening I broke out the new camera, the Rudolph headband, ornaments, lights, and Ash's "Team Santa" outfit to attempt a holiday photo shoot. She single-handedly destroyed a number of my wrapped presents (crash! sideswipe! reacchhhh and thrust), shoved a strand of lights in her mouth, and bounced a breakable ornament like a ball. I took over 40 pictures but I can almost guarantee that not *one* will end up on our holiday card. Ash threw a tantrum when I put her pjs on, arching her back and flailing around wildly, nearly knocking herself out on the changing table. Then there were slight hysterics and salty tears followed by a large bottle and bedtime. As I'm sitting here typing this, I can barely keep my eyes open and it's just a little after 8:30.

A year ago tonight Jeff and I didn't even know who she was. We had just gotten home from my baby shower. Right about now Jeff was putting together the swing and I was sorting through the new clothes, ripping out tags and arranging them into piles that varied by size. (Looking back at the 0-3 stuff is almost surreal; how was she ever that little?!) It was also the last time I ever saw Uncle Billy. Hard to believe. I know Ashlyn so well now and it's crazy to think that he never met her and never will. If you had told me that night what I would be dealing with a mere week from then, and where my life would be now, I don't think I ever would have believed it.

I have been thinking about him a lot lately...I mean not a day has gone by that I haven't, but I guess the holidays/anniversary certainly make it that much more pervasive. I wish more than anything that we could bring him back. I had a dream two nights ago that he was sitting at a table writing a note and he looked upset. I could distinctly see myself walking over to him and putting my arms around him as my dad watched in the background. It would be so wonderful if that were possible. Life is too short, and you never know when you are giving someone a hug for the last time. Just make sure you always hug and love like you mean it.

I couldn't love Ashlyn more if I tried. I look at my perfect little girl when she's in my lap, eyes half-droopy with sleep; when she's squealing and her two little bottom teeth are sticking out; when she's pouting and waving her hand in my face to "go away, Mommy"; and when she wakes up in the morning, beaming and kicking her feet together because she's so happy to see me, and I think that I just can't lose her. She has to live until she's at least 100 and even that isn't long enough. I hope she's always as happy as she can be, and that if she isn't, that she reaches out for help. I want her to know that she is the best thing I have ever created, that I am already so proud of her. Despite all of the day-to-day craziness of raising a child, there is nothing in the world as rewarding or fulfilling.

I usually love fall.  Well, I still do.  But for some reason this year it is absolutely flying by, and that makes me sad.  I always heard that once you have children, time goes by *that* much faster, and I've come to realize that's not just a saying.  It's so true.  Ashlyn will be 10 months old on Friday, and we'll be dressing her up for her first Halloween (don't worry, we aren't actually going to take candy from anyone since she obviously only has two teeth in her head)...where has this past year gone?!  And wasn't it just September?  Now it's nearly November.  The next thing you know, I'll be sending a pig-tailed Ash off to kindergarten.  Whaaattt.  Make it slow down already.

I should be using this time to work on Ashlyn's scrapbook or my children's book, but my head is so clogged with Sudafed that I can't even think straight.  So I grabbed the old laptop in the hopes of blogging something interesting.  I should have known better.  First I went to facebook (ahem, addict), then CNN, and then I found myself here because I thought "Now at least that's something worthwile" but it's really not if I am rambling on about what I just did five minutes ago.  It's not entertaining at all.  Ugh.  Jeff is at the movies, the little bunny is in bed, and here I sit.  I am contemplating reading or watching TV now because that's what people do best when they feel sick.  GAAAAHHHH this is so boring.  I know I should erase it.  But I guess there are bound to be just as many UNinteresting days in the life of Tara, so I might as well document them for posterity as well.

All right, off to watch House Hunters or something equally as mind-numbing.      

I honestly love Connecticut.  I may be biased since I've lived here all my life and therefore find it comfortable, cozy, familiar and home...but even objectively speaking, I think it's beautiful.  Today I wandered up to "The Quiet Corner" (which I lovingly referred to as "The Boring Corner" during my UConn Storrs days) to check out Roseland Cottage in Woodstock with Laurie.  I discovered Roseland Cottage's existence online last month while researching various historical New England sights. 

It was cloudy and cool this morning, and on the drive north I noticed that several of the trees had already begun their seasonal change; their leaves glowed red and orange against the gray skyline.  While the Pomfret/Putnam/Woodstock area of Connecticut might not be the most exciting area of the state, I enjoyed the ride because the winding roads, antique shops, apple orchards, and distinguished-looking schools were all new to me, and I liked the feeling of exploration and discovery in my home state.

While the Roseland Cottage tour was fairly interesting, it wasn't my favorite part of the day.  Afterwards, Laurie and I wandered outside to the beautiful garden in front of the house, and we played with a few Colonial toys on the grounds (it happened to be Civil War Reenactment Day).  We checked out the oldest standing bowling alley in the world (part of the cottage, believe it or not), and listened to some Civil War era music on the lawn.  Then we headed up the road to the Vanilla Bean Cafe (a favorite place of  hers, and a long-time memory of mine: the last time I visited was at the end of my freshmen year in 1998). 

We enjoyed our lunch and good conversation, and then headed on to Mrs. Bridges Pantry for tea and scones.   http://www.mrsbridgespantry.com/  Looooved this!  What an unexpected find in adorable Woodstock.  Mrs. Bridges is basically a British Tea Shop, and they also sell my favorite foods from London including Walkers shortbread and Dairy Milk chocolate bars.  We ordered a pot of tea to share (Yorkshire Gold, to be exact) and two blueberry scones (well, one each).  It was the most delicious scone I've ever had in my life.  And just to be sitting there with the tea cozy in front of me, the little silver container of sugar cubes, and lots of old people (hahaha) made me feel all warm inside.  Okay, I know that sounds lame, but seriously, it's how I felt.  I was happy to be having such a fun, cozy, and interesting experience just an hour away from my house even though I felt far-removed from reality for a bit.  Does that make sense?

On the way home, we stopped at an eclectic gift shop called Celebrations where they had quite the selection from hand-crafted wine classes and artwork to inspirational journals, soaps and jewelery.  I wanted to start my Christmas shopping but was almost too overwhelmed.  I retraced my steps a few times before leaving empty-handed.  But I have a feeling I'll be back...

I loved today because it was low-key but it was time well-spent.  I learned a few new things, I enjoyed each small experience for what it was worth, and I feel like I uncovered some well-hidden secrets in my own back yard.  Looking forward to the next adventure.

Sometimes I wonder if my uncle is okay.  People who know me well know that I am a firm believer in life after death and the paranormal.  For the past eight months I have been looking for a sign that he is around, that he has seen Ashlyn, that he is at peace. Late at night when I am in her room comforting her or rocking her back to sleep, I'll occasionally hear a noise behind me and wonder if he's watching over us.  The rational part of my brain knows that it's not him, but my heart longs for a sense of comfort or closure that, due to the nature of his death, I know I will probably never find. The fact that he missed meeting my daughter by two weeks continues to haunt me.  I will always wonder if she could have sparked something in him...some interest?  Life?  I don't know. I mean I guess I am putting too much on one person because it was beyond one person's control. He didn't stay here for his wife (the love of his life for almost 30 years).  He didn't stay here for his two sisters.  He didn't stay here for his career even though he had worked there loyally (and with many of the same people) for almost his entire life.  Everyone misses him.  I can still easily hear his voice in my head...he would almost always start the conversation with "Your mother told me ___________" since he and Mom talked often.  I can hear that, and I can hear the conversation we had over the phone the day before he died.  It was my birthday.  I teased him because he had spent $13 Fed Exing my card to me to make sure it arrived on Saturday (my birthday was on a Sunday).  I had no idea that there was a good reason he was Fed Exing that card...if it arrived on Monday evening, he knew he would already be gone.  He wanted to make sure I had it before I heard the news.

I could cry just writing this, but honestly there are days when the tears won't come.  After eight months, some of the initial shock has worn off but the "why why WHY" will never go away.  I hate that I will never have a satisfactory answer.  I can read all the books in the world on the topic but not one will tell me what my uncle was thinking or why he chose to do what he did.  All I know is that I, like everyone else, wish there was something I could have done to have prevented it.  I wish Ashlyn's arrival could have sustained him for a little while longer, I wish her new life could have reminded him of how amazing this world can be, I wish we could go back in time to our home videos where Uncle Billy's biggest concern was making sure his wiffle ball pitch went over the plate so that Ryan could hit a homerun.  I just hope that he is better off, wherever he is, since he felt like he couldn't be here anymore.

I love my little chunkaroo.

Yes, that's one of a zillion nicknames I have for my little bunny (Ashlyn).  People will tell you that parenthood is amazing, that nothing beats it, that you will just *know* instantaneously what being a parent means as soon as you hold them in the hospital.  And I will agree with that to an extent, but I have found that my love for my daughter grows exponentially (at least!) by the day as I get to know her better.  When they're newborns, they are sweet because they're small and new and needy, but they don't light up the room with their smile.  They don't belly laugh through mouthfuls of pureed mango or stick their tongue out over their two baby teeth.  They don't reach for you when you stand over their crib in the morning, and they don't squeal with delight when you come home from work.  Ashlyn amazes me on a daily basis with her ability to explore and grasp new things (both tangibly and conceptually).  She is my new favorite hobby.

Tonight she fell asleep on Jeff's lap about halfway through her bottle.  She looked totally content with her rosy cheeks, green and brown flowered sleeper, long eyelashes, and little puckered mouth.  I took a few pictures of this innocence, and then carefully lifted her onto my shoulder.  Her head nuzzled into me and I hugged her even more tightly.  As I stood there, I thought I might explode from within with love.  I can't explain exactly how much love I have for this little girl, but the sheer amount is staggering.  She will be 8 months old next week, and I can only imagine what the next few weeks, months, and years will bring.  Yesterday at work I daydreamed about taking her to see London, one of my favorite places, when she's five years old.   Even though I know five wouldn't be the best age to travel 7 hours on a plane.  Even though she will probably have a very young sibling at that point, and we most likely won't be traveling over the Atlantic.

I just want to share everything with her.  I want to teach her and watch her experience life.  And life is too short to even begin to show her the whole world, which I want more than anything.