Little Pieces of Me

By: Barbara Matousek

Three deep red lines wrap around my wrist, and although I’ve tucked them underneath the band of my Polar heart rate monitor, the sweat and constant motion have moved them up on my arm. I’m approaching mile marker 4 and I can hear Freebird blasting from an old country farm house on the right side of County Road 29. I wrapped the red string around my wrist last Tuesday night during an informal gathering for a friend preparing to have her second child. She was less than a week from her due date and her first child had been born two weeks early, so we were all surprised to be sitting there with her, still not knowing whether her second child was a boy or girl.

This wasn’t the first mother blessing I’d been to. My friends had thankfully forced me to have one the week before Eva was born and many of my friends have since had their second child. I’ve witnessed candle burning and feet washing and lavender rubbing. I’ve told stories and presented beads and read excerpts from The Prophet. I’ve listened to prayers and sung songs and visualized easy births and smooth transitions. Every blessing has been different, tailored to the mommy-to-be. During our speeches to Robyn I admitted that I hadn’t brought anything to read and no beads to present, but it was important to me to be there. I told the story of how Robyn had stopped at my house during a training ride last summer, how she had gotten off her bike and clip-clopped in to get some water, the back of her legs wet and covered with the dirt that had spun up at her during her 100+ miles of biking. She was the picture of strength, and she told me she was anxious about her upcoming triathalon. It was hard to believe that someone as strong and prepared and together as Robyn could ever have any doubt that she could do anything.

Before we stood in a circle and wrapped the red string around our wrists one at a time but after we’d all told Robyn how much we admire her strength, she showed us that she still had the string from Joy’s blessing on her wrist. We were sitting in Joy’s living room, her two-week-old daughter quietly asleep in the arms of another mother while Joy made sure we all got sparkling apple juice and homemade berry pie. Robyn told us all how she had accidentally cut through her livestrong bracelet when she cut off the hospital wristband after her son was born 2 and ½ years ago.

“I hadn’t taken it off for 5 years before that,” she said, “And just like that it was gone. I guess it meant I was starting a new chapter of my life.”

I thought about this and how becoming a mother had meant putting so much of my own stuff on hold, how I’d nearly stopped reading and writing and running, how finding any time for myself meant I had to steal it in tiny snippets in between laundry and dishes and diapers changes, how only now, as Eva’s on the verge of turning 18 months old, I’m just starting to return to those little pieces of me that have been scattered.

As County Road 29 becomes Fremont Street, I jog the slight incline and come around the corner on to Main Street. People line the sidewalks and at the top of the hill I can hear them announcing runners’ names as they cross the finish line.

Robyn headed to the hospital the next morning, and I got an email just after midnight telling me that her daughter had been born, that Robyn was once again entering in to another new life chapter.

I push myself faster, the muscles in my calves pulling, my heart pounding strong within my chest, as the distance to the finish closes. I glance down to check the time as I cross the finish line, and once again I see the wet red string around my wrist, a string that reminds me of my friend and her strength and my own determination to make small commitments to myself this year. I have no intention of cutting it any time soon.

More Will Be Revealed

By: Holly Vanderhaar

Many moms—especially single moms—in my circle will list Anne Lamott among their favorite parenting authors. Not because she gives parenting advice, per se, but her memoir Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year has saved many a new mom’s sanity. She gave me the courage to become a writer myself, and when I was teaching creative writing in grad school, I taught Bird by Bird, her book on writing. And I could write an entire post about how Anne’s approach to spirituality made me look at my own spirituality through fresh eyes, eyes of love and compassion and forgiveness.

My daughters were about 18 months old when I first read Operating Instructions, so we were past the every-three-hour-around-the-clock feedings, the crippling (no, crippling isn’t a strong enough word) sleep deprivation, the fierce maternal protectiveness coupled with an absolute unmooring from everything that had ever made me feel secure and confident. And when the attachment parenting books made me feel inadequate for not being utterly besotted with these wriggling, angry, liquid-spewing organisms every second of the day, it was a blessed relief when Anne described her colicky baby—a baby she clearly loved—“raising its loathsome reptilian head again.” I love my children more than my own life, but I think idealizing anything—even parenthood, especially parenthood—is not productive. What’s more, I think it’s dangerous to every new parent who beats him- or herself up over not being perfect and feeling abject adoration every second of every day.

I’m woefully out of touch with publishing news, which is odd considering that writing about writers is what I do for a living. So I was surprised to hear that Lamott has a new book out. And I was gobsmacked to realize that that gritchy little baby from Operating Instructions is now a grown man and a father in his own right. I found out about Some Assembly Required: A Journal of My Son’s First Son last weekend, and realizing that new books usually mean book tours, I did some quick Googling and found out that she would be reading and signing at a Barnes and Noble in my area the very next evening. Unfortunately “in my area” didn’t mean in the Twin Cities proper, which is where I live; it meant in a rich, white suburb about 35 minutes away, not accounting for rush hour traffic. The reading was on a Monday night, and it was too late to get a sitter. Monday nights are busy for us anyway, and this Monday was already overscheduled, but I couldn’t miss a chance to meet Anne over the signing table, even if our whole conversation consisted of “Who should I make it out to?” and me spelling my name. Even if I never got to tell her what I wanted to, that she was my angel when I really needed her.

So what I’m calling my Single Parent Reality Check, AKA Monday, went like this: I worked from home, picked the girls up after school, rushed them home, force-fed them a snack and supervised homework like a drill sergeant. They changed into leotards and tights and I took them to their dance class at the local parks and rec. Another mad dash home to change into warm clothes, because a freezing drizzle was now underway, then off to drop off the cookie money. Hit the drive-thru at Wendy’s, and then onto the slippery rush hour freeway out to the suburbs. We made it to the Barnes and Noble about 15 minutes before the reading started, only to circle the Range-Rover-crammed parking lot in a futile search for a spot. Finally found one by stalking a woman who was wandering around looking for her car, and dashed into the store, only to be told by the store employee that it was “hearing room only,” and “the chairs were taken two hours ago” and I “should have gotten here earlier.” I nearly—what’s the phrase?—choked a bitch. Stopped off to buy a copy of the book for Anne to sign and trudged downstairs dragging two 8-year-olds and enough paraphernalia to keep them occupied for a couple of hours.

The reading and Q & A were great; I could hear almost every word, and once in a while I even got a glimpse of Anne’s famous dreads. But the store was a mob scene, and when they announced the signing with some cryptic comment about how “only Marches could line up,” I had to start asking questions. It seemed that they had been handing out desk calendar pages to the people who had their shit together and had gotten to the store early. The woman with the calendar all but rolled her eyes at me when she tore off my page: October 21. And they were on March. I looked at my patient daughters, whom I’d dragged out in the rain, who were already going to be out an hour past their bedtime on a school night, and I knew I couldn’t ask it of them.

I led them through the crush of people, blinking back tears of exhaustion and frustration and self-pity, when Isabelle pulled her hand from mine. I turned, annoyed, and then saw what she’d stopped for. A downy feather was floating down from the ceiling, and she caught it, delighted.

For the last several years, feathers have had meaning for me. When I find them at odd times, or in unlikely places, I believe it means that someone is looking out for me. Someone is telling me there’s a plan, that even if I don’t see it now, more will be revealed. The feather that appeared out of thin air in a Barnes and Noble in Edina, Minnesota, was the only thing that could have snapped me out of my self-pity spiral.

More will be revealed.

The Art of the Mom-Versation

By: Allison Norris

 

With such little time for regular social interaction, “mom talk” is taking over my social life.

There are different parts of this phenomenon:

Comparing notes on little ones;
Repeating the same story over and over;
One upping;
Speaking in third person;
Common conversation starters;

If you are a mom, or you know one and hang out with her often, you know what I’m talking about.

I overheard two moms talking at the park the other day and 100% of their conversation was about their kids. They didn’t say a single personal thing without it involving why they were woken up early or how busy their driving schedule has become with both kids in soccer. It wasn’t a conversation, really. It was “oh, I know! I did the same thing when Sammy was that age…” It’s like a tennis match, back and forth, hitting the ball with the notes on their children. It’s no wonder many moms start in on a conversation with a monologue about their life; they have forgotten how to talk to people who don’t have kids. Their kids are their whole life, the topic of every conversation. “Oh, ya, Baylor was the same way. He used to wake up every two hours until he was a year old…” I guess nobody asked, but now they know about Baylor’s sleep schedule. Don’t worry, I’ll get their baby’s sleep schedule next. It’s just how it goes. It’s the way that we learn, and maybe feel normal.

 

I’m not saying that all moms are like this… because they’re not. But the ones that are have started to rub off on me and I catch myself only talking about Baylor when someone asks me how I’m doing. It’s quite simply because how I am doing really depends on my sweet baby.

I catch myself wondering if I’ve already told this story to this person. I ask, “wait, did I already tell you about this?” And when they say, “no,” I am curious as to if they are just being polite or if I really haven’t told them about it. I meet nannies, moms, friends of Toby’s, or just new people out and about and much of the “new people” conversation covers a cute story about Baylor, where I grew up, that I love my PEPS group, and that I didn’t plan on being a mom at my age but love it! Should the conversation go past that, it’s hard to remember what information I give and if I should take it to level 2 or level 3 conversation (friend details… and then a little more personal friend details) at our next encounter. I need to start taking notes.

 

Mom-versations always include a one-upper. It’s impossible not to. Your baby walked at a year? That’s my cue to tell you Baylor walked at ten months. She sings? Baylor knows how to count to 20 in Spanish. What else you got? Bring it! And let’s be really nice and enthusiastic (“WOW!”) the whole time we’re doing it.

Third person. I said I’d never talk to my child this way, and yet here I am. “Baylor, let Mommy do it. Mommy wants a bite too. Do you want Mommy to help?” Will he not understand if I say, “me” and refer to myself? How did this happen?

Common conversation starters are essential in the world of new mom friends. “How old is she?” “I love that jumper, where did you find that?” “Wow! He’s really tall!” “I’m the nanny of her, and the mom of him…” All common.

And then we start talking about our kids, one upping, and talking about sleep schedules. Don’t worry, if I run into you next time, I’ll probably tell you the exact same thing again because I won’t remember this conversation at all.

Moms are amazing. Sleep deprived, hungry for socialization, and hoping that the way they are raising their babies isn’t too crazy, what else would there be to talk about? These little creatures are enough conversation to last a lifetime… which is probably why we will talk about them with pride for the rest of our lives.

Liar, Liar… Just a Little

By: Allison Norris

I’ve learned about something funny in the last week.  I’ve been hearing about how much people lie, and I’m wondering if everyone has done this.  Not so much BIG lies, like the kind that cover up stories that could ruin your life.  Just lies that don’t really mean anything at all.  What’s the point?  Once they come out of your mouth, do you wonder why you are saying them and how you will continue with the story that you are fabricating by the second?  But wait, you’ve never probably done this before, right?

How is the lady in the grocery store going to know that you are really only 25 and that no, the child in your cart is the baby you nanny and not yours at all.  Even though it sounds better to say that she’s yours, just for confusion’s sake, and because you know just as much as a mom anyway, right?  It’s a long story as to why you are nannying and I doubt she wants to hear that you dropped out of law school and are sleeping on your parents’ couch with absolutely no plan.  The fancy car out there, yep, totally mine… not borrowing it because the car seat was already in it and all.

How is your new friend from the park going to figure out that you aren’t actually married, or a doctor, and that you’re back in school to become a teacher but those new vocab words you learned in your biology 101 course can be used in so many new ways to sound smart.

Your best friend is a movie star?  NO WAY!  No way is right… because it’s your best friend’s cousin’s ex-girlfriend’s brother.  Close enough.

I’m 30.  Ok, I’m really 27, but they’ll never know.

I got a 4.0 in all of my classes in college.  Try a 3.2 because of the fat “D” that math professor gave me because she thought I was cheating, but I was just studying in the library with a tutor every day and got that shit right.  Such a bitch.

I studied abroad for a year.  It was really only six months.

I was in labor for 45 hours, can you believe that?  It was really only 32, but 45 makes me sound like such a badass.

I’ve caught myself elaborating on a truth to make it sound more exciting… more extravagant.  To make ME sound more exciting and extravagant.  As if anyone but me actually cares.

My friend told me about a silly little lie that she told.  It didn’t hurt anyone and she wasn’t covering anything up… it just came out of her mouth!  I asked her why she had said it, and she said she had no idea!  It isn’t that she’s a liar, but she was tired and just went along with a conversation and before she knew it, she was making things up to cover her falsity.
My new goal is to be totally honest.  No elaborating.  No extra extremes.  Just the truth, even if it is boring and plain – because you know I’m going to be standing there, lying away and Baylor is going to say, “Mom, you didn’t wake up at 5:30, you woke up at 7am, why are you saying that?”  And there I will be, with my lying pants around my ankles getting a verbal spanking from my child for lying.

The truth will set you free.  Amen.

No Lion to Be Found

By Barbara Matousek

Last year at this time the usual late winter cycles of snow and melting had the river ice receding, and Sam and I regularly watched eagles perched on the edge fishing near open water. We were stuck in that bi-polar March weather pattern that Midwesterners are used to, rushes of warmth and sunshine followed by cold gray skies dumping ice on our roads and driveways, usually dousing us with snow the weekend of the high school state basketball tournament. Eva was not yet walking, and as the single mother of a preschooler and an infant I was constantly pulled in two directions. My sister promised me everything would get easier when my second child was four.

This year we never experienced the usual January cabin fever, the weeks when sub-zero temperatures and winds whipping across the prairie leave everyone housebound. And this February didn’t ever bring the snow dumps we’ve learned to expect. And if there are lambs and lions in March, the lion is definitely out of town this year.

Yesterday we were in the backyard in shorts and t-shirts and Sam pointed out the bright green spikes of chives shooting up through the dead plants from last fall. The kids played a game of sink-or-float with a giant bucket of water and sand, and I got out my garden gloves and cleared away the snaking dead leaves from last year’s daylilies to reveal young sprouts peeking towards the sunshine.

This weekend I got my first preview of the life my sister promised me. While I cleared away dead leaves and removed layers of dust on the outdoor furniture and summer toys, the kids played by themselves. And Saturday night after we (meaning me) were all exhausted from an entire day outside in the sunshine, I sat down on the floor to watch UW-Madison (my alma mater) and Marquette (my sister’s alma mater) play in separate games in the NCAA tournament. The UW-Green Bay Lady Phoenix were playing on a third channel, and I had visions of my father sitting in front of the television trying to watch all three at the same time. Sam told me he wanted the Wisconsin Badgers and “The Marquettes” to win, and then he ran down the hall to his bedroom. Eva followed behind him (as she always does these days) and for a full 25 minutes I sat on the floor and watched basketball while the kids made monster roaring noises down the hall. For a full 25 minutes nobody wanted to sit in my lap and nobody cried “Uppie” at me from the floor and nobody hung on my arms and legs trying to get me to play a wrestling game. For a full 25 minutes I felt myself breathe deeply and glimpse at the future.

And to be honest, it made me a little sad.

Single Mamas in the World

By: Allison Norris

Hey single mommies out there…
You are doing a great job.
If it feels like your life is one big ball of chaos and exhaustion… it probably is, and it’s ok.   It is supposed to be like this right now.
If you feel like some of your friends don’t “get it” it’s because they don’t, and they may not ever.  It doesn’t really matter if they don’t get it… just keep on moving!  In with the new…
Your kids will thank you some day for the job you are doing.  And if they don’t, you will see your success in the strong, capable, independent people that they become.  And there’s always therapy if they’re really screwed up!  Just kidding.  Kind of.
If you are lonely and looking for that special someone to “complete” the family, they will come.  Just focus on raising your babies and when the time is right, it will happen.  Who has the time to date, ayway?  And hey, your family is complete just as it is.
Broke?  My mom always says that driving beat up cars and wearing second-hand clothes build character.  Just think about how much character building you are doing and you’re not even trying!
Seek support and help.  Surround yourself with good people, with other single parents who understand what your life is and who can come over on a Tuesday night for a bottle of wine and a movie for the kids.
Embrace being the sole decision maker in your house.  It’s ok to have pancakes for dinner.
Remind yourself that you are doing the best job that you can do – and I think all parents, married or not, can relate to that.
After all, it takes a village.  You’re never really alone.
Keep up the good work!

I’ll Totally Be There…

By: Allison Norris

Moms who aren’t flakes are amazing. There are lots of them – the ones that do what they say they are going to do. They make plans and then are right on time and double check with you to confirm. Some of them have more than one child, and some of them are single moms. It makes me think of that movie “I don’t know how she does it” with SJP. It got mediocre reviews – but I understood it. The balance battle and figuring out when to say “no” even when it’s something that you really should do, because, well, they came to your birthday dinner, so you should go to theirs. It’s hard!

If I say I’ll be there, I’m there 80% of the time and I try not to be late. That other 20% is me being a total flake. I got a text from a friend of mine who has a two-year-old. She has started every text for the last two months with “Sorry – I’m a flake! I really did mean to call!” Understanding her language, I tell her she’s amazing and we reschedule plans… which never really happen. Another single mom friend of mine just emailed me about how hard it is to get invited out by friends on a Saturday night – even though they know you have a little one at home. You get annoyed because they know you can’t go, but then it’s even worse when you aren’t invited, so really they are in a lose-lose situation. It’s just hard to be social. Unless you have a live-in nanny, I suppose.

Perhaps it’s because I happily do things for someone else all day long. I can’t politely say “no” when Baylor asks me to wipe his bottom. Skipping lunch because I’d rather be napping or being late to pick him up out of his crib in the morning doesn’t exist in my world. The few precious minutes that I have to myself are sacred and are thought about long beforehand. Do I want to spend my free Saturday meeting with someone I haven’t seen in years, just because I bumped into them on a street corner and we suggested that we should do coffee “sometime” and they remembered and nailed me down via facebook? I don’t. I want to spend my free Saturday doing absolutely nothing on my couch with a blanket and coffee and my fireplace on with my phone on silent.

The balance battle: being social – 0. Allison flaking and being a recluse – 1.

I vaguely recall the days of only thinking about myself – what I was going to wear, eat, when I’d work out, who I was meeting for drinks after work, and what I was doing this weekend. It seems that was a different life – one that I do not wish to return to because being a mom is the best thing in the world, but sometimes the smell of brand new clothes will zap me back in time to being a single girl in the city. Like when I smell really strong cologne and cigarette smoke and I’m 19 and back in Spain.

I’m sure when Baylor is older and independent I will get a whiff of play doh and wish for these days of innocence and cuddle time. Until then, I will continue to lose friends because I forget to respond to a text and they think I’m mad at them, but really I am just exhausted and drove down the street with my phone on the roof of my car. I can’t call you back because I’ll be one of those moms who says, “Oh, I know, I’m totally on the same page as – BAYLOR, I SAID GET DOWN! Sorry, anyway, what was I saying? Right, she has no idea what is – NO YOU MAY NOT HAVE THAT CHOCOLATE BAR AND WHERE DID YOU FIND THAT ANYWAY? So, what were we talking about? Can I call you back? Baylor needs me to dump the pee out of his little potty. YOU WANT TO USE THE BIG POTTY? ARE YOU SURE? Sorry… let me call you back.”

It won’t be like this for long and I’ll miss it when it’s over, but until then, the few minutes of mom-vacation that come by may be spent doing absolutely nothing and loving every minute of it.

Connection

By: Barbara Matousek

I do not generally agonize over decisions. I decided to move to Minnesota five minutes after receiving my first job offer. In the 20 years since then I have owned five homes, writing offers on all of them the day I toured them. When I was trying to get pregnant and the donor I had picked out was suddenly unavailable, I went to the cryobank website and picked out a new donor (based mostly on his baby picture) in about 20 minutes. So the fact that I’m waffling over a decision about pre-school is a new feeling to me.

Yesterday I had some actual alone time with a mommy friend of mine, a friend who I am getting to know slowly as our four children keep us from having deep, meaningful conversations on any sort of regular basis. She and I were invited to a mother blessing of a mutual friend, and while Kate and I rode in the car together, we both prattled on at rapid speed, as if everything we’ve wanted to say to each other had been building pressure.

Foremost in both our minds seemed to be the upcoming registration for pre-school. 3-day or 5-day? What are you going to do with YOUR son? Kate said that she had registered her son for 5-day, but I have not made my decision yet. The 3-day makes the most sense for my family.

In my life before children I once noticed a car in the grocery store parking lot with the door wide open, nobody inside. I saw an elderly man wandering the parking lot looking lost, and I asked him if he needed help. He told me he was trying to find Arlis and I led him back to the car and helped him sit. He was confused enough that he couldn’t figure out he had to pull his feet in before we could shut the door. I told him she would be back soon and there was no need to worry. It would be okay. I left him and sat in my own car and watched through the pouring rain on my windshield until Arlis came out and crawled in the driver’s side, and then I drove away with tears in my eyes. When I turned the experience in to a short story, my writing teacher asked why this narrator was longing for deep connections, what about her life was so isolating that she reached out to this lost, old man, why this connection made her cry.

Parked in Kate’s driveway after the mother blessing yesterday, she told me that even if our children are not in the same class next year we will still be friends, that she values the connection we’ve made. It was as if she had read my mind. We hugged and she got out of the car, and as I drove away I felt tears in my eyes. Perhaps my indecisiveness about pre-school was fear that if our boys were not in the same class, Kate and I would no longer be friends, that I would lose this connection that feels important to me. But thanks to Kate’s kind words from the passenger seat of my car, I can stop worrying and know that everything will be okay.

The Travel Fund

By: Holly Vanderhaar

I should be writing about the ridiculous bill that is on the floor of the state senate in Wisconsin, Senate Bill 507, one that equates single parenthood with child abuse. Either that, or I should vent my spleen about the loathsome Rush Limbaugh and his complete and utter…well. Never mind. I really should write about these things because I’m angry about them, and I think we should all be angry about them. But all of it sickens me and I reserve the right to save my psyche for another day. I’ve decided to dwell instead on something a wee bit lighter and fluffier this week.

There were a number of hopes I cherished when I was pregnant. I hoped that my children would have a sense of humor. I hoped that they would grow to love music, especially the Beatles. I hoped that they would love horses. And I hoped that they would be good travelers. My hopes have been rewarded in every case, save one: they remain stubbornly indifferent to horses. So far. I haven’t given up yet.

I’ve been thinking about the future lately. I refuse to think about Gracie and Isabelle moving away and living their lives without me, ha-ha, so I focus on the things I look forward to instead. I can’t wait to travel, REALLY travel, with them. Money’s been tight for the last several years, so it hasn’t been financially possible anyway, but they also haven’t been old enough to really get much out of travel. Last fall we went to New York City for the first time (the first time for them, anyway; I lived there for a while). They were terrific: walked all over the city with no complaints, loved taking the subway, and managed the crowds—even an Occupy Wall Street demonstration in Times Square—with aplomb. I was so proud of them, and I began to be able to envision a future where we would go to visit friends in California, or go back to New York again for a longer visit, or go to the UK so I can take them to London and Liverpool and Dublin. Maybe I’ll finally get to Italy, and we can discover it together.

I know that, when it comes to your kids, you’re never supposed to wish for time to fly faster. Every grandma in the grocery store says, “Enjoy them. They grow up so fast.” And this is a good age, although most of the ages —bar the first year— have been good. But as my daughters grow up before my eyes, I’m getting a glimpse of the future now and then, and I’ve been thinking about the things I look forward to sharing with them. I’ve come up with some strategies to save money, and I’m going to start that travel fund next month. We’ll send postcards!

Meet My Boyfriend

By: Allison Norris

It was recently brought to my attention that I have not provided any details about my boyfriend on my blog.  Sorry… especially to my sweet follower Madge Woods.  This one is for you!

I met my boyfriend Toby through a friend in July of last year.  He was nervous and shy and so, so nice.  Much nicer than I am.  And cute!  He’s so cute.   He’s the kind of guy who takes a CPR class for fun and then months later finds a woman drowning in the water and pulls her out and saves her life.  Nevermind that she was trying to commit suicide and he totally ruined her plan (ok, so he’s not that nice)…

It has to be interesting dating a single mom.  I don’t think it’s easy.  It takes a special man to see the joy and beauty in parenting when it isn’t their child.  I know these men are out there because I know many of them, and I’d always hoped that I would find one like this.  He comes over around dinner time when we’re tired and things are a little chaotic.  He plays trucks with Bay until I finish cooking and then sets the table.  He does the dishes while I give Bay a bath and put him to bed, and then rubs my shoulders on the couch until I usually fall asleep, or am so pooped out that I can hardly have a conversation.  Never mind that he’s a 30-year-old healthy young man… I’m just too tired.

He knows  that I can’t just go grab drinks with friends, and staying out late means midnight.  He understands that I need notice before doing anything that requires finding a babysitter, and he never tries to parent my child.

He’s a test fisherman for the state, meaning he fishes every day for his job.  He collects data on Salmon and gets to be outside on the water.  Maybe that’s why he is so cool and calm – he’s one with the sea every day. 

He takes beautiful photos of the whales, eagles, and other wildlife he sees, but says he’s not a photographer.  He lives on a house boat in Lake Union… just like Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle, except his is chilly and has spiders, but it has a great view!

It has been a slow and healthy relationship.  We have taken the time to get to know each other… not jumping in to anything.  It has been nice and  I am still getting to know him a little more each day.  I’m constantly surprised and amazed at his thoughtfulness, willingness to help, and his understanding of my life.  He’s never said a negative word about my son, his dad, or my situation.  He supports me and loves me for who I am – which can be a whole lot of impatience and exhaustion.  He drives me crazy sometimes (it can’t always be rainbows and sunshine, he’s a picky eater for goodness sake), and we’ve had a few disagreements, but in the end, we’re learning about each other and I want to know more!

So there you go, Madge, now you know about my Toby.

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