The second half

Monday is surgery day. A long time coming and definitely necessary but if I'm being completely honest, I'm not quite ready. I procrastinated for two years and finally came to the conclusion that it was time to let go and look ahead.

Having talked to a number of women I think feelings of grief are perfectly normal. I think many of us, from toddler years onward, dream of being mommies. And how blessed am I to have realized those dreams with the most incredible of little people who challenge, fascinate and inspire me everyday?

"You should not have this surgery if you want more children" the Doctor said two years ago when I still wasn't ready to let go...


hazy reverie of an intact family, maybe a third little one...an easy-happy nine months of love, support, collective excitement


As recently as winter I pondered the possibility with someone. From a pure rationality perspective for all involved I knew it was a risk...but for a minute I believed in the magic of possibilities. That brief hope sadly faded with the season. But that ending did bring clarity. I embraced where I was with the best people in the world who need me at my very best. And called the doctor.


So I will probably shed a few more tears, maybe indulge a few angry thoughts for vacuous promises, love on my babies and get excited about Phase 2 of my life.


Here's to the second half...

Footprints and Snow

Tonight while carrying groceries, I glance at my footprints in the freshly fallen snow. With each snowfall I am sad to sully the still perfect white. But I am late with children to feed and the snow is wet and cold on my face.

For a senior year poetry class in college, I wrote "A Memory of Snow". At the end of the course my professor remarked that it was the "most moving "of the semester although it still needed work. I have yet to finish it...

The poem is lonely. I have always been melancholy over footprints in the snow.

Making soup in the kitchen I look out my window at the white pouring from the sky. Through the streetlight, the flakes sparkle. Still I feel sad because life is different. Just my children and I on a snowy night. The kitchen is messy and I still have a pantry of food to put away.

Dad playing games with the children....keeping the fire warm.
Mom finishing dinnerand starting cocoa. Kids laughing over plans to sled.

All of us.

Alone I am lucky to keep a candle lit and to find one pair of matching gloves.

One child whines there is no hot chocolate although I know it was among the bags. I throw on my boots and shuffle to the car in hopes of finding the missing box. Sure enough, it had fallen on the floor.

Grabbing the cocoa, I slam the car door and walk toward my porch where I notice the footprint has disappeared under a new layer of shimmery white. I smile.


and the snow falls