How to soothe a preteen girl

It's threatening to show itself...

My sweet daughter has had a rough year. She's been dealing with some really heavy shit that has been extraordinarily stressful and anxiety-producing. She has also been forced to talk about it with people other than me, which she absolutely hates. This is a girl who is extremely private and it has been excruciating for her. 

It has also affected school for her. It piled on. So school has been a trigger as well. 

Last week she became free from that process. We are also rapidly approaching the end of the school year. 

For some, this might have brought on a sense of relief. A feeling that you can finally relax and exhale.

For Josie, it has not been that. Instead, all of the tension and anxiety and trauma that she has been holding in for a year have come flooding out. Tears and feelings of despondency. It has been heartbreaking to watch.

Last night she seemed to be doing ok and then when I mentioned going to school, she broke down. The thought of going to school today overwhelmed her. We lay down on my bed and wrapped my arms around her while she cried.

"All of my friends are coming up to me and trying to comfort me, which is nice. But they keep trying to get me to talk about it, and I don't want to."

"Then you don't have to. Just say, 'I appreciate that you've been thinking about me, but I really don't want to talk about it.' That's all. There's nothing else to say. Nobody can make you talk."

She nodded but was still crying on my shoulder. I hugged her and let her cry.

"What can I do for you, honey? How can I help you feel better?"

She shrugged. 

Then the cat jumped on the bed and went into a downward dog position (downward cat?), with his paws stretched in front of him and his ass up in the air. It made me chuckle.

"Shall we ask Scooby if he would show us his butthole?" I asked. "Would that make you feel better?"

She started to laugh a little bit.

"Maybe if we ask really nicely."

She giggled some more. 

"I think we should ask him. I bet he'd be willing. You could use it. Buttholes are always funny," I continued. "I think they should be identified as a treatment for depression."

"Take two cat buttholes and call me in the morning," she said.

"Absolutely."

She started laughing really hard. 

"See? It's working already!"

"They should put it in the medical books."

"Here's what we're going to do," I said. "I'm going to take a bunch of pictures of Scooby's butthole. And then at random times during the day tomorrow, I'm going to text one to you. And it will keep you from feeling too down."

We continued that way for a while, laughing and joking around. She calmed down and smiled and went to bed. 

When I woke up this morning, the cat was walking around. I managed to take a few pictures of his butt even though he wouldn't sit still. 

I dropped Josie at school this morning and said, "be ready. They're coming."

She laughed and said, "bye mumsie. I love you."

"I love you too. And so does Scooby's butt."

And all was right with her world, at least for a little while. 

I was in a bit of a pickle, but give me a month.

 Greg and I were noodling about something fun to do this past weekend. He called me and asked, "do you think you would be able to handle the stairs at Red Rocks?"

Later, when I told Zeke about this, he laughed and said, "Damn, I love that guy."

And truly, his confidence in my ability to do just about anything is wonderful, and one of my favorite things about him. But in this case, it was too much. 

Now, for those of you who aren't from these parts (or have never been to Red Rocks), it is nothing but steep stairs. The seating is set into the rocks on a steep incline. You climb endless steep uneven stairs to get to the upper entrance, and then walk down steep stairs to get to your seat. If you go in through the lower entrance, you climb endless steep stairs once you pass through the gates. You walk up the hills from the parking lot, and then climb steep stairs from there.

So many stairs. So much steepness.

Red Rocks is a truly magical place to see a show. But three weeks out from knee surgery, I didn't see it as being anything but a miserable, grueling experience. 

"I think it would be really difficult for me," I said. "I can still only climb stairs one leg at a time. Getting up and down the stairs of my house is a pain in the ass. I love Red Rocks, but I don't think I'm ready yet. Give me a month."

So instead we went and drank whiskey (with pickle juice chasers) and listened to rootsy bluegrass at a funky general store in this mountain town up in the hills west of Boulder. 

I have long felt that as a society, we don't take enough advantage of pickle juice. It's great for replenishing electrolytes. It has a bright, tangy flavor. I grew up eating sour kosher dill pickles made with plenty of garlic and spice, and I would always suck the juice out of the pickle before eating it. It's the best.

What I didn't realize is that pickle juice chasers are having a bit of a moment. I googled it and found numerous recipes and articles singing its praises. Who knew?

Anyway, it's delightful.

As is hanging out in a small town general store, drinking, eating pizza, listening to bluegrass, and chatting with the locals. 

Everyone was super friendly and down-to-earth. It was a blast. It also did not require me to to climb any stairs.

But I wasn't kidding when I said to give me a month. The progress, she is steady. 

Every week when I go to rehab, the PT checks my range of motion and my stability, and gives me exercises for the coming week. I do the exercises as assigned. The next week, I've made improvement, so he gives me more and different exercises. I do them. The next week, I've made more improvement, so he gives me new exercises. 

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

I can now walk unassisted (no crutches or brace) with a barely perceptible limp. Today I started climbing up stairs with alternating legs, and it felt pretty good. I can't quite go down stairs with alternating legs, but I'll get there soon. I'm able to do short rides on the Peloton. I do wall squats and leg extensions with resistance bands to strengthen my quads.

When my injury happened, and when I was in my initial days post-surgery, I lamented that summer was coming up and I wouldn't be able to do all of the outdoorsy things I love to do in the summer, like hikes and bike rides. it was overwhelming and felt impossible. 

Now I think that I will be able to. I'm fairly certain I'll be able to climb a 14er for my annual Emma climb in September. I'm confident I'll be able to ski next season. 

And apres ski, I'll be sure to order my whisky with a pickleback. 

Day Ten: Humility, and why it's good to have a brother who is an athletic coach

 From an intellectual, left-brained perspective, I was and am fully cognizant of the road ahead of me, and prepared to walk it. From emotional perspective, reality kicked me in the gut.

Friday was my first physical therapy appointment. I walked in with my brace and my crutches, and was encouraged and energized by the room full of equipment. 

Let's go.

I lay on the table while Matt, my PT guy, manipulated my leg. First thing was to measure my range of motion.

"One week out, we want to see knee flexion at 90 degrees. And when you extend your leg straight we want a bend of less than 10 degrees. The extension is the thing we really want to focus on first, but you're going to be working on both. Your bend is at about 85 degrees, and your extension is at around 11 or 12. So you're in good shape. You're doing well."

The numbers are everything to me. I thought to myself, dude, you have NO idea how task-oriented I am. There's no way I'm walking out of here without hitting those targets. 

I was lying on my back with my left knee bent. I scooted my heel back towards my butt in small increments. 

Scoot scoot. Rest for 10 seconds. Scoot scoot. Rest for 10 seconds. Scoot scoot.

"Where is it now?"

He measured again. "Ninety degrees. Nice job."

Then he put a bolster under my Achilles heel so that my leg was extended as much as possible. I tried to focus on relaxing the muscles to let gravity work to pull the back of the knee down. It was extremely difficult and uncomfortable. I couldn't hold the position for more than a couple of minutes at a time.

"You're going to need to do this multiple times a day, trying to hold it for longer and longer as you can tolerate it." 

We did that for a while.

"Where's the extension now?" I asked.

He measured again. "Nine degrees. Excellent."

I mentally patted myself on the back.

We worked on a few other things. He unlocked my brace so that the knee would bend and I could start trying to use a more normal gait, bringing my left leg up to take a step and then landing with a proper heel-to-toe.

They use a digital system that sends exercises to an app, so he loaded up my account with exercises for the week. The app is great - it tracks your activity and includes video so you can follow along and imitate the movements.

I left feeling good. 

The next day, I did a PT session on my own, and I broke down and cried.

It was so hard. It was so humbling. I can barely lift my leg up from a lying-down position. I can't contract my quad muscle. There's one exercise that involves lying face-down on the floor and lifting the leg up, and it took all of my concentration to be able to lift it a tiny bit.

The dreaded leg extension

I felt like a baby learning to walk. 

I had a vision of the next 6 months. Limping along. Constantly being uncomfortable. Not being able to do anything. Feeling weak and puny.

It reduced me to tears.

Greg came over to help me move my ice machine down the stairs from my bedroom - basically, a little cooler filled with freezing cold water that flows through tubes into a pad that I can wrap around my leg. It's on a timer that I can set, so I ice the knee for 10-15 minutes every hour. It is my new favorite thing that I own. But I use crutches to get up and down the stairs, and I can't use the crutches and carry the ice machine at the same time. And if I can't get it downstairs, I'm stuck in my room all day, which is a drag.

When he came in, I lamented that I felt awful and weak and helpless. I hate that my muscles won't do what I tell them to do. I hate that I have to ask people to come help me with basic tasks.

He gave me a hug and assured me that I would get stronger and more self-sufficient. He said that it was ok to ask for help, and that I have many people in my life who love me and are happy to help me.

Later that day, I called my brother Josh. Josh had this same surgery about eight years ago, so he's a good resource and sounding board. He is also a high school lacrosse coach, so he's good at motivational pep talks. 

We talked about the rehab timeline and the experience he had. He said that full recovery would take many months. But I can't focus on the end goal or how long it will take me to get there. 

I have to take it one workout and one day at a time. Don't worry about increasing your knee flexion by 30 degrees. Try to improve by one degree. And then one degree the next day. It feels insignificant but it adds up. After a month, you've improved by 30 degrees. Treat the PT like any of the other exercise programs I've done. Do what's on the calendar for today, and then don't worry about it. Tomorrow, do the same thing. By the end of the program, you'll see the results.

I know this. Of course I know this. I've used those same principles to motivate other people. When one of the kids is overwhelmed by the fact that they're supposed to have read eight chapters of the book but are only on chapter two, I tell them, "just read one chapter. You can do one chapter. And when that's done, you can focus on the next chapter." 

But I needed to hear it from someone else, because I wasn't listening to myself. 

"Will you coach me through this?" I asked. "Could you send me a text or some kind of meme or whatever to help me stay motivated and on the ball? That's never really been my thing, but I think I need it."

"Absolutely," he said.

After we hung up, I ordered a whiteboard to put up in my workout room. I can track each day's workouts and write motivational quotes. 

I told Greg about this and he told me I was a nerd. 

"You like that I'm nerdy," I responded, laughing.

"I totally do," he smiled. 

On Sunday morning, Josh sent me an audio of clips of different motivational speeches by coaches. I did my PT sessions on Sunday, and felt good about them.

I love my brother.

I woke up this morning and did another session. I lifted some weights for shoulders and arms, and then got on the Peloton and did 5 minutes of partial revolutions back and forth (I can't yet do a full revolution in either direction). I use my right leg to push the pedals in each direction, getting as far as I can and then holding it for 10 seconds before going back the other way. I do this at least twice a day, and try to move a little further each time.

Giant nerd alert

I took the ice machine downstairs by myself and started work (I'm working from home after taking last week off). The whiteboard will arrive later today. I've got my set of colored dry-erase markers ready. 

Keep the motivational quotes and memes coming my way. I am in full dork mode and I am here for them. 

Day Five

Day one you're powering through on adrenaline and heavy drugs. There's still a lot of swelling and numbness that is keeping your body from feeling what you would actually be feeling after having tissue pulled from one of your muscles and stray fibers shaved from one of your ligaments and scopes and knives poking and prodding your knee. The narcotics are powerful. Things seem like they will be ok. 

It was a whole new ballgame on Day Two.  We had a nice morning when Greg came over for brunch, but after that, the swelling and numbness started to abate, the nerves started firing, and the pain flooded in. Like, the walls of a dam breaking - that kind of flooding. Notwithstanding that I was maintaining my scheduled regimen of drugs, on Sunday night it was so overwhelming that I lay on the couch crying and trying to breathe. It was like someone slowly was dragging knives into the inside of my leg between my knee and my groin - honestly the worst pain I've ever experienced in my entire life, including childbirth. My poor mother sat with me and stroked my hand and tried to talk me through it. I took some more Oxy and eventually was able to relax enough to get upstairs into bed.

pretty flowers from my coworkers

Monday was an improvement over Sunday, but anything would have been. I napped and watched Derry Girls. I had a phone consult with the PT, who assured me that what I experienced was relatively normal. I hadn't expected that kind of pain, and my big fear was that I had re-injured something, so talking to her was a big relief. She gave me some exercises to do, and I did them. The pain was easing up, so I decided to start weaning off the narcotics because they were starting to make me feel sick. 

swelling is going down

Yesterday was when days of constantly pumping my body with nasty chemicals caught up with me. I felt nauseated and groggy and couldn't eat anything. I didn't do much but lie around and resist my mother's efforts to feed me. I did, however, get tickets to the two Dead & Company shows coming to Boulder in June, so all-in-all, the day was a win.

waiting to be let into the website 

Today I have been off the Oxy for 24 hours. I feel much more human. I was able to take a proper shower by sticking a chair in the tub and wrapping my knee in Saran wrap. Mom and I walked over to Zorba's (a diner that's a block from my house) - or rather, she walked and I crutched - and we had some breakfast. Later I'm going to do my rehab exercises and lift some weights for my upper body, because I'm definitely using those muscles quite a bit.

using the time to learn by watching the new Ken Burns
docuseries about Benjamin Franklin on PBS

Baby steps.

Day One

The surgery went perfectly. The surgeon talked to Mom while I was still in the recovery room and told her that there was a little more damage than he initially anticipated, but he fixed it all and said I will make a full recovery. He was great. Before I went into the OR, we were chatting and I said, "how are you feeling today? Everything good in your life? Feeling confident and happy going into this operation?"

He laughed and said, "absolutely. We're going to crush it." And we did.

Pre-op, rocking the sexy socks.

But it was a rough evening. After I woke up, I was groggy and in pain. The anesthesiologist had focused on two nerves along the front of my thigh because that was where the bulk of work was going to be done, but it was harder for the pain medication to spread to the hamstring, which was where the tissue was harvested for the ACL reconstruction. 

That was the part that was in a ton of pain. They administered fentanyl and some other powerful drugs, but they wear off quickly. And the next thing I was allowed to take was Tylenol, and not until 8pm. I would be able to take another dose of Oxycontin 3 hours after that.

It was 5 o'clock.

Coming out of surgery is miserable. Your body is in trauma. You can feel it being angry at you. "What are you doing? Why? Whyyyy? Fuck you!!"

So I went home and suffered. It hurt to use the crutches. It hurt to sit. I had a hard time finding a position that was comfortable to keep my leg elevated that. 

Ouch.

Everything hurt.

But! 

There were positive signs. After a few hours, I got my appetite back and ate some toast and Greek lemon chicken soup. I found a comfortable position and turned on my cold therapy machine, which is the greatest contraption ever. My mom and I watched the women's Final Four, which was entertaining and distracting. 

And we got in bed and I took two Oxycontin pills and the world became a brighter place.

After I took the dose, I said, "Alexa, set a timer for 3 hours."

Three hours later I took Tylenol. 

"Alexa, set a timer for 3 hours."

Three hours later I took Oxy.

"Alexa, set a timer for 3 hours."

Three hours later I took Tylenol. 

Etcetera.

The hurt abated. My body calmed down and stopped cursing my name. I got some sleep. 

When I woke up, I read my post-op instructions. Today I am to continue icing my knee. I am to get up and move around every 2-3 hours. I am to try to bear some weight as I am able. I am to start working on range of motion, slowly bending and straightening my knee and raising my leg several times a day.

So I got up and moved around. A couple of times I stood straight on the leg without the crutches. I laid down in bed and bent my knee - range of motion was pretty good. I raised my leg about ten times. I made it down the stairs on crutches. The knee doesn't feel stable, but I wouldn't expect it to today. The hamstring hurts, but with the meds the pain is tolerable. 

All in all, I'm encouraged. Here we go.

 

Time to do the damned thing

It was extremely distressing to discover that not only had my little black dress not made it into my bag - though I distinctly remembered getting it out of the closet and putting it on the pile - but neither had my underwear. 

So all I had for our fancy dinner was a flimsy cotton dress that has moth holes in it (but which I keep to schlump around in because it’s still pretty cute and oh so comfortable) and the pair of undies I was wearing, which are bright neon orange and show right through the dress. 

We were at the Broadmoor, one of the loveliest hotels in the world, as a last weekend hurrah before I have knee surgery (tomorrow) to reconstruct the ligaments I destroyed while skiing a month and a half ago. And I really REALLY did not want to go into a swanky restaurant wearing a ratty dress with loudly colored underwear glowing from beneath.

The skiing injury was heartbreaking to me. It was only my fifth day of the season on the mountain, and came after an incredible day of skiing all over Vail with some of Greg’s friends who were visiting from out of town. The next day we were a little tired and decided to have a mellow day. 

“Let’s do some easy runs to warm up before heading over to the back of the mountain,” we thought. 

After which I proceeded to blast into a mogul field going much too fast, because I came over a ridge and for some reason thought the terrain below was groomed rather than bumpy. 

It wasn’t. I lost control and made a twisting fall. I felt and heard the “pop” that is the sure sign of a ruptured ACL. Ski patrol was called, they pulled me down the mountain in the sled, and I went to the hospital. I drove back to Denver with a big heavy brace on my left leg, crying most of the way.

Greg likes to take pictures of me when I've busted ass.

No more skiing. No more long summer hikes. No more Triple Bypass, which I had been really looking forward to. Maybe no Emma climb. I cried for the next two days.

I have spent the ensuing seven weeks doing my damndest to “pre-hab” my knee by doing strength and stretching exercises and riding the Peloton every single day, often multiple times a day, so that my range of motion can be as good as it can be before heading into surgery. 

And after the surgery, I will have to do it all again, only with much more pain and much more hard work for seven or eight months, with the goal being that I can do my Emma climb in the fall and ski again next season.

Hence the fun weekend. And the missing undies.

I went to the concierge and told her my predicament. Was there anywhere nearby I could go to buy some panties that weren’t visible from space?

It being the Broadmoor, she didn’t hesitate to say, “of course! The boutiques are closed but we’ll just open them up for you and you can shop for whatever you’d like.”

Of course!

So a nice young man took me to the boutique and opened the doors and turned on the lights. I wandered through the empty store and picked out some non-neon-orange underwear to wear with my slightly moth-eaten dress, which cleaned up nicely with some heels and jewelry. And we had a lovely romantic evening wandering through the hotel looking at their incredible art collection, and having drinks while watching the NCAA tournament at the bar, and strolling around the lake holding hands, and eating a delicious dinner. We came back to Denver the next day feeling refreshed.

A painting at the Broadmoor called "Staging." I don't remember who painted it.
We both liked it but also felt very anxious looking at it - that ride would be terrifying.

The landscape around Colorado Springs. Stunning.

Sculpture in the yard of a house near the Broadmoor. The neighbors might not love it
(it's huge and draws cars full of gawkers), but it's really cool. 

Tomorrow is my surgery. I’m nervous the way I’ve always been nervous when I’m about to be sedated so that somebody can cut into my body. I’m nervous about what a pain in the ass it's going to be to get around for the next few months. I’m nervous about the long and difficult rehab that I’m facing.

But! I am strong and healthy. I’m a fast healer with a high tolerance for pain. I have friends and loved ones who will take care of me. I’m extremely disciplined when it comes to exercise. The doctor and the physical therapist only need to tell me exactly what to do, and I will do it. I’ll eventually be able to ski and bike and hike and do all of the things that I love. 

Most likely wearing brightly colored underwear. 

Feliz año nuevo!

For our last night in Mexico - New Year's Eve - I did my research. 

Greg had initially suggested that we drive from Guanajuato City to the pyramids at Teotihuacan, spend the night there, and then go to the airport the next day. 

There were a number of reasons why that plan would have ended up being a bad choice. 

The pyramids are an hour from the airport, and while our flight left at 9:30 in the morning - not too too horrible - we had to return the rental car (which we had slightly damaged). We also needed to get there early enough to deal with COVID checks (which it turned out I had, despite having tested negative the day before) and all of the bullshit that international flights entail. It would have made for a stressful morning.

Plus, New Year's Eve! Fun! Party! I doubted that there was going to be much going on out by the pyramids. But according to all of the articles and blog posts I found, there was fun to be had in Mexico City.

For example, Newyearsevelive.net posited the question, "where do you head for on new years eve to find the biggest party to welcome 2022?" They answered their own question thusly:

In Mexico City there's only one answer, and that's the enormous street party on the famous Zocalo, the main square right in the heart of the city.

The party area spreads out right across the central area, with roads closed from Palacio de Bellas Artes to Paseo de la Reforma Boulevard.

The party itself gets underway earlier in the day and contains everything you would expect to find at a Mexican street party, live music from popular bands, dancing, colourful costumes, a plentiful supply of food and of course the huge fireworks display at midnight.

It sounded very promising. 

So I booked us a room in a cool hotel half a block off the Zocalo. We drove from Guanajuato, saw the pyramids at Teotihuacan (which we weren't able to climb because of COVID), drove to the airport to return the car, and then took an Uber into town. We showered and put on our party clothes and headed out to the Zocalo. 

No one was there. 

Well, maybe there were 100 or so people milling around. But you have to understand that the Zocalo is absolutely enormous. A vast square surrounded by big, imposing old colonial buildings - it holds over  100,000 people. So 100 or so people is nothing. It's like some ants scurrying around a tennis court. 

It was clear that preparations had been underway. There were amusement park rides set up and evidence that a party was going to happen. But the centro was dark and blocked off. It was almost eerie. 

Not exactly the scene we were expecting

Had the party been planned but canceled at the last minute because of COVID?* Where were the people? Where were the bands? Where were the "colourful costumes" and the "plentiful supply of food?"

We were disappointed and confused. We were also hungry.

We decided to look for something to eat. Greg would be on his phone and find something promising, but we would head over there and it would be shuttered. This happened a couple of times. Then we just started meandering down different streets, and I am not exaggerating when I tell you that nothing was open except for a KFC and maybe a Starbucks. We were in the heart of downtown on New Year's Eve in one of the major cities of the world, and every single restaurant was closed and boarded up. 

"What is going on?" I wailed. "This is one of the biggest party nights of the year! Don't people want to make money?"

It was completely baffling.

We were walking down a street and it sounded like there was a party on the upper floor of a building we passed. A guy in front of the building saw us looking up at where the noise was and said, "are you interested in going to the event?" 

Our hunger and our desire to participate in something festive won out over our suspicion that we might end up lying in a bathtub with missing kidneys, so we went in a back door and up some stairs to a big room blasting music that made a bass-heavy oontz-oontz sound. It was sparsely populated and felt dingy. We paid our 80 pesos (about $4) to get in, found seats by the window and away from the speakers, and ordered what turned out to be aggressively mediocre hamburgers and aggressively weak margaritas.

Not only was the food shitty, but it was served on plates covered with plastic so the dishes wouldn't get dirty. In an act of rebellion, we removed the plastic and smeared ketchup all over the plates, because we're mature like that. 

"This is ridiculous," Greg said.

"Is this really what our night is going to be like? I can't stay here," I said. 

More phone research told us that one of the super tall buildings nearby had a swanky party in their rooftop restaurant, so we headed that way to see if we could get in. At the entrance, we met a security guard who told us it was sold out. 

"Where is everyone?" I asked. "Why are all of the restaurants and bars closed?"

"Because it's New Year's," he said. "People stay home on New Year's."

I wasn't inclined to argue this patently absurd assertion, so we left and took a stroll in the Alameda Central, a huge, lovely public park right next to the Palacio de Bellas Artes. The Palacio is stunning. The park was quiet and peaceful, with a canopy of trees overhead.

After admiring a Diego Rivera mural on the far side of the park, we started to walk back towards the Zocalo. When we saw a Hilton hotel, we figured that at the very least, we could get a drink at the bar. It was worth a shot.

Inside, it looked encouraging. There were some people were hanging out and watching college football. We walked up to the bar and tried to order drinks, only to be told that they had closed 3 minutes before. 

Of course. I mean, it was 9:33 on New Year's Eve. What possible reason would they have to be open? 

"What the actual fuck," we muttered.

"Is there another restaurant in the hotel that might be open?" I asked the bartender.

"You can try the restaurant upstairs," he shrugged.

So we took the elevator upstairs. The floor was dark and empty and quiet, and naturally, the restaurant was closed. But I heard music and party sounds coming from the floor above. We decided to investigate. 

The closest way up was an escalator that had been turned off. We stumbled up it in the dark, sliding around barricades at the top, and found ourselves at the end of a floor. At the other end was a party! Yay!

What we had discovered was the Hilton's official New Year's Eve party - the big cheesy kind you buy tickets to because you can't think of anything else to do. There was a band and a huge buffet and assigned tables and drinks. It seemed like nirvana.

We loitered out in the hall, watching people have their pictures taken next to oversized inflated bottles of champagne or whatever. Finally, Greg and I looked at each other, decided that "act like you belong" was our strategy, and marched in with confidence.  

We stood for a while at the side of the room checking out the scene.  Men in sports coats, women looking like they were dressed either for the prom or as a mother-of-the-bride. There was a woman singing covers and working the crowd like a lounge act. It was exactly what you would expect.

We weren't going to sit at somebody's table - that would have been weird. We were trying to figure out what to do when a waiter-looking dude approached us. 

"Can I help you?" he asked. "Can I show you to your table?"

"Oh, we just wanted to stand up here so we could hear the singer," I said. I looked at Greg and he nodded at me encouragingly.

We're going to be so busted, I thought to myself.

But then the guy said, "can I at least get you a drink?"

"Um, yes! That would be great!"

A waiter walked by with a tray of tequila shots.

"Could we have some tequila?" I asked.

"Of course!"

So we each had a tequila shot. They were delicious and much-needed, if perhaps not the greatest combination with the questionable food we had eaten earlier. We hung out for a little bit and decided that we shouldn't stay too much longer, but that at least one more free drink was in order. 

Act like you belong.

I walked over to a bar stand with a bunch of shots set out.

"¿Podemos tener alguna, por favor?" I asked the bartender.

"Claro," the bartender responded. 

I grabbed two, and we each did another tequila shot. Feeling warm and loose, fortified with decent liquor, we decided to venture out to see what other mischief we could get into. 

 One of the more random things we encountered as we made our way through the streets

After strolling down the street and people-watching for a bit, we found another party, this time with a crowd and salsa music. The restaurant was full of people drinking and dancing. The music was hopping. We stayed and had some fun. I danced around as Greg sat on his bar stool, and we laughed and talked about our trip. 

Then a band gathered on the stage - they had some horns, so we figured maybe it was a mariachi band. We were excited - mariachi music can be really fun and wonderful. 

But it turned out that they were, in Greg's words, the loudest and crappiest Mexican high school marching band ever. So loud. So unpleasant. 

"When they headed onto the stage, they had so much promise," he sighed. I could only laugh. 

It was 11:30 at that point, so we decided to go back to the Zocalo and finish the night there. 

A little crowd had gathered near a countdown clock. At midnight, everyone smooched and wished each other a happy new year.

We kissed and smiled at each other. It was a beautiful night and we were a little tipsy. We agreed that on reflection, and in spite of all the craziness - because of it, actually - it had been a great and unforgettable night. 

Or at the very least, it made for a great story. 

*It turned out that's exactly what happened. The mayor of Mexico City had decided at the last minute to cancel everything, which surprised us because the COVID protocols in Mexico were strict and everybody followed them, even outside. 

Feeling good, feeling fine, oh, baby, let the music play

It's only early December, so it feels a tad early to start with all the year-end retrospectives, but everyone loves a good list. My favorite list is Spotify's end of year compilation of top songs and artists. Music is such a powerful part of memory, bringing back thoughts and visual images and emotions - I look forward to and save each year's list because they are time capsules. 

I love a good time capsule. 

I find it hilarious that my top song of the entire year was Van Halen's Dance the Night Away. But it's definitely a sorry not sorry thing, because I love that song. From the opening cowbell to the hooky-as-hell guitar riff to David Lee Roth's scream-y high notes to the "let's cut loose and enjoy life" vibe, it's completely captivating. It also makes me smile because of the reason it's at the top of the list. 

Last January, I had my first date with Greg. We went out for a lovely dinner. Two days later we went out again, this time to play pool at my favorite bar in Denver, a dive-y place on Colfax called PS Lounge. Every woman gets a rose when she walks in, every person gets a shot of Alabama Slammer when they sit down, and it has a seriously amazing jukebox. 

Playing pool at PS Lounge in January

I think Pete (the owner) has monkeyed with the settings, because a dollar that is only supposed to buy 4 songs actually buys, like, 11. So Greg and I took turns picking songs and ended up with a great list, when I turned into a Spotify playlist called "Pete's Jukebox." The first song I picked was Dance the Night Away, and Greg said, "oh my god, I love that song." 

Now whenever we go to PS Lounge, we pick out songs together and the next day I add them to the playlist. I listen to it often, and it makes me smile. It also includes Cheap Trick's Surrender, Hall & Oates' Rich Girl, and Bobby Darin's I'm Beginning To See The Light, and the Police's Invisible Sun, which are all high on the year-end list as well. 

In October, Christin and I climbed Mt. Sherman wearing our Dead & Co. concert shirts (naturally), and then a few weeks later went to two Dead & Company shows when they were touring here. The first show was at Red Rocks, on the night of the full moon. It was cold but beautiful and the band sounded amazing. I had actually gotten rid of my ticket for the second show at Fiddler's Green because I was like, do I really need to go to two Dead shows in a week? But 15 seconds into John Mayer opening the show by singing Bertha, the answer was clearly "yes," and I immediately pulled out my phone and repurchased the ticket to the Fiddler's show, which ended up being even better than the Red Rocks show.

Something was very funny at the Red Rocks show

The shows were fantastic for a number of reasons, on top of the music. I always love hanging out with Christin, and she and I danced and sang along and laughed our asses off. We bought more shirts and giggled about how perfect it was to be scarfing down pizza while enjoying a bit of a contact high while listening to the Dead - like being back in college! We were highly amused when, at the Fiddler's show, the guy in front of us was super drunk and sat down on the grass in front of me, and proceeded to lean back into my lap, proclaiming how comfortable I was to sit on. We enjoyed grabbing a bite after the show at Perkins, this super sketchy IHOP-wannabe type of restaurant - our meal of choice was pie and tater tots, and it was as delicious as it sounds.

For about a month surrounding these shows, I listened almost exclusively to Deal & Company. Which is why it's the top artist on my 2021 playlist. 

Late in the summer Zeke got really into skateboarding. Like, really really into skateboarding. He now takes his board with him everywhere and practices tricks all the time. "Mom, watch this ..." followed by a skateboarding trick is a recurring thing in my life. That got me interested in watching Lords of Dogtown, about the birth of the skateboarding scene in southern California in the 1970s. There's a scene in the movie when Three Dog Night's Shambala was playing, and then I heard the song somewhere else, realized it was turning into an enjoyable ear-worm, and now it's number 12 on the year-end list. 

Zeke skateboards near my parents' house in Virginia during our Thanksgiving break

Rain on Me, by Lady Gaga (with Ariana Grande) was played in a Peloton class I took. I "liked" it from the bike's touchscreen, which puts it on a Spotify playlist, and then I added it to an exercise playlist. It's super catchy. Sometimes I'll play that playlist and Josie and I will dance around and be silly.

I listen to these songs and they make me feel good. Which makes me feel good about the past year. There were things about the year that were extraordinarily awful and difficult. But there were also things that were really great, and that make me hopeful for the future. 

I will say good-night as I listen to Aretha Franklin's cover of Bridge Over Troubled Water, which in my humble opinion is the best recording of the song ever. A couple of months ago I was playing it in the car when I was driving around with Zeke, and he said, "Jesus!" 

"What?" I said.

"Her voice. It's incredible."

I told him he should add it to one of his Spotify playlists. 

A conversation

Saturday afternoon. The family is sitting on the sofa watching football. Susan and Wendy are folding laundry.

Me: What should we do for dinner tomorrow night? We could order in or cook something.

Mom: We could do one of those things.

Me: Yes, we could. Why don't we cook something easy?

Mom: It's supposed to be chilly tomorrow. Maybe a stew?

Me: That could be good. I've got salad stuff. We could have salad to go with it.

Mom: Barry, you like stew, don't you?

Dad (incapable of not being a smart-aleck): Who's Stu?

Me (looking to the heavens and starting to chuckle): Good lord, it's fucking relentless.

Dad (also laughing): Which Stu?

Me (pulling a random last name out of my brain): Jones.

Dad: I like Stu Jones! He's a good guy!

Me: Maybe he likes stew.

Mom: Or something with chicken thighs? The New York Times cooking app has those sheet pan recipes where you cook everything on one pan. (Reading through recipe names) Chicken thighs stuffed with chard ... sheet-pan chicken with squash and dates.

Dad: That manages to combine two ingredients I hate. 

Me: Ew.

Dad: Susan, didn't we serve with Stu Jones somewhere? El Salvador, maybe?

Mom: Yes, that's sounds right. 

Me (confused): Wait, who are we talking about?

Dad: Stu Jones! We worked with him in an embassy somewhere. 

Me: He's a real person? I was just making that up.

Dad: No, he really exists!

Mom: Yeah, we know him.

Me: So random.

Mom: How about sheet-pan chicken with potatoes, scallions and capers?

Me: Ooh, that sounds yummy.

Mom: Let's do that. We can go grocery shopping in the morning. 

Me: Maybe we could add some vegetables to the pan to roast along with the other stuff? Maybe some broccoli or brussel sprouts?

Dad (making a face): Broccoli?

Me: What's wrong with broccoli?

Mom: We can see what looks good at the store.  Barry, does the chicken thigh recipe sound OK?

Dad: I thought we were having stew?

Me: I'm done.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy

 My darling Zeke,

This past Sunday was your 14th birthday. You were with your dad, but you and I had planned to go shopping for a new skateboard. You have recently gotten very into skateboarding - taking your board with you everywhere, constantly practicing your ollies, putting holes in my delicate lathe-and-plaster walls by accidently crashing the board into them. It's been fun seeing you develop this new interest, and in typical Zeke fashion, you practice tirelessly because you want to get good at it. But you were riding a crappy board that had been cobbled together from a couple of other crappy boards, so for your birthday I promised you a shiny new one. 

We ended up not going because a couple of your good friends came over and you wanted to hang out with them. Which was absolutely fine. I'm happy that you have some close friends that you spend time with. It's as it should be. 

Instead, we went on Monday after I got out of court. You picked out an awesome board with all the accoutrements and I ended up spending far more than I thought I would have to on a skateboard, but I was happy to do it. 

This has been crazy year. It started off with you and Josie still doing school remotely, which absolutely sucked. You were miserable and bored and depressed. Sometimes you took it out on me - I guess that's par for the course for parents of teenagers. 

You were unhappy, you weren't getting enough exercise, and you were unhappy with your life and with yourself. You didn't like how you looked and worried that you were fat (you weren't). I told you that you were obviously getting ready for a growth spurt, and whatever minimal COVID- and isolation-related fluff you were carrying would disappear in no time.

And man, did it ever. 

Over the past five months, you have transformed into a different person. You have grown a few inches and totally leaned out. Your face has lost any semblance of baby fat and you look like you're three or four years older than you are. You're growing your hair out and it looks amazing. You're beautiful. 

But even more importantly, you're wonderful. 

I don't know what happened, but at some point in the late spring a switch flipped and you emerged from your funk. Maybe it was just a maturity growth spurt to go along with your physical growth spurt. Maybe it was the bike camp adventure you went on in June - two weeks biking and camping the length of Vermont with a bunch of other kids your age. Maybe it was finishing school and getting vaccinated and feeling like there was some respite from the strictures of COVID life.

Whatever it was, since then you have been consistently delightful. You're sweet and kind and affectionate. You're helpful most of the time. You might not always do what I ask, but you're never a dick about it. You're fun to be around. You have nice friends, many of whom are always at my house eating all of my food. You're enjoying being back in school. 

Of course, life is not without its bumps.

This year also brought a significant problem that the family is dealing with. Suffice it to say that it threw you for a big loop and was starting to send you down an emotional tailspin. I was unable and unwilling to watch you spiral when things were just starting to feel good and stable for you after years of dealing with some traumatic shit, both COVID-related and otherwise. So I stepped in and did my best to fix the problem, and things have calmed down again.

It sure scared me, though. I love you so much, and I have spent so much time over the past few years trying to help you navigate the trauma you experienced from the divorce, from the abuse you suffered from your first stepmom (not the current one), from the difficulties you and Dad were having, from the pandemic. 

My mama-bear instincts kicked in and I was hell-bent on protecting you. 

I realized that's part of what will always make our relationship special. Of course I love your sister to pieces, but she doesn't need me the way you do. She's always been more resilient than you are, and she relates to Dad more than you are able to. 

So I am your safe person. And you are the one I will always rush to care for and protect, no matter what. To say that I love you doesn't begin to describe how utterly you occupy my heart. 

Love love love, 

Mom

The mountains are calling and I must go

 A friend of mine recently turned me on to Ken Burns's documentary series about the national parks (it's great). The first episode talks a lot about John Muir (whose quote is the title of this post), and how he viewed the wildness of nature not so much as evidence of god, but rather as an actual church through which the divine is manifested. I'm not a religious person, but I really relate to that idea - that my spiritual connection with the world feels the strongest when I'm out in nature.

Maybe that's why after Emma died, my instinct was to spread her ashes from the top of a tall mountain. Rather than attend Rosh haShana services, I chose that day to celebrate her by climbing a mountain - in my blog post about it, I said it would "certainly be a more meaningful, spiritual experience than sitting in a synagogue with strangers." 

It's what compels me to keep going back every year.  

Technically, the yahrtzeit ritual involves the lighting of a candle on the anniversary of a person's death. But lighting candles is child's play. Anyone can do it. The greater commitment is to honor someone through a difficult but life-affirming act - doing something hard, something that is sometimes uncomfortable, that requires you to dig deep within yourself. And doing it out in nature gives it that spiritual element - that connection with the divine, whatever that may be.

That's what yesterday felt like. 

It was a spectacularly beautiful day. Clear air (a welcome respite from the wildfire haze), with the kind of blue sky that you only see in Colorado in the fall. We arrived at the trailhead in the dark and started walking, and after about thirty minutes the sun started to come up. The light peeking up over the mountains was magical.

Parts of the walk were not easy. It's not a long climb in terms of distance - only 2.5 miles - but in that short space is 2100 vertical feet of elevation.. There were sections that were insanely steep without many switchbacks to level out the effort. We moved through those sections slowly but deliberately, less concerned with our pace than with simply enjoying the hike and our conversation. 

But then there were sections that were flatter, or that involved some bouldering or walking along an extremely narrow ridgeline. It kept things interesting. 

Yikes.

The views at the top were amazing. 

Leadville off in the distance

We reached the summit at about 9:30, having made pretty good time even with a number of stops to eat or pee or rest. After drinking my Arnold Palmer (I always carry a bottle to drink at the top), I sat on the edge of the ridge to perform my ritual of reading the names and saying the Kaddish. I had 78 names on my list, including Leonard Cohen, who was added at Greg's request. 

I had forgotten to print out the Kaddish but I had cell signal at the summit, so I pulled it up on my phone. 

Christin surreptitiously snapped a picture. 

We sat and talked about Emma for a while. Christin asked me what she was like, and I talked about how she was funny and sweet and kind. How she faced her recovery after her accident with such strength and determination. How much we all loved her. As always, it made me cry. 

But then I dried my eyes and marveled at the view and the gorgeous weather and at how great we both felt. We talked about how we are happiest and most connected to life when we are outside and moving our bodies, and how lucky we are to live where we live.

The walk down was mellow and fun. We chatted with fellow climbers, petted some dogs, said hi to some little kids. 

Driving back to town for our post-hike meal of nachos and beer, the fall colors that we couldn't admire during our nighttime drive to the trailhead were in full view. We kept slowing down or stopping to take pictures. 

Mother Nature shows off.

The world is such a beautiful place. I wish Emma could have lived to continue to experience it. 

But I'm doing what little I can to honor her by experiencing it for her. 

Go shorty, it's your birthday

 My dearest darling Josephine,

This morning I woke up and found that you had crawled into bed with me during the night. I snuggled up close to you and brushed your hair away from your face and started to sing, "happy birthday to youuu..."

Without opening your eyes, you smiled and put your hand on my cheek. 

"Happy birthday, twelve-year-old girl! Do you want to hear the story of the day your were born?"

You nodded, so I told you about getting to the hospital super early and how lovely and peaceful your birth was. Then we got up and picked up Starbucks for the car pool group and drove to school with the other girls, playing birthday songs (everything from the Beatles to 50 Cent) and gossiping about teachers in your school. 

Today is a good day. 

This year has been hit or miss. 

Being 11 was not easy for you. COVID school sucked so much - you were miserable. You felt stupid and overwhelmed and like you couldn't focus on anything. 

Plus ... you were 11. Being an eleven-year-old girl is awful. Your body is changing, your hormones are flooding, you're going through developmental changes that basically render you clinically insane. 

Let's just say that your hair-trigger temper was even more hair-trigger-y than normal. 

But you're still my sweet, funny girl. It's like living with an improv comedian who is always on stage. Crazy voices, sassiness, riffing different scenarios. You always make me laugh.

This school year is off to a much better start. You have good friends, you like your classes, and you're getting good grades. You're much happier.

You've become very interested in fashion and in what you wear. You and your grandmother recently had a virtual shopping trip together and you picked out a bunch of new pieces. Mimi was concerned about the quality and fit of some of the things, but you made good choices. 

You're so cute. 

But note the shoes. Which are mine. Which I did not give you permission to take. 

This is a thing you do and it drives me absolutely insane. I will walk into your room, which is never not a disgusting mess, and see my black suede high heeled boots. 

"Why do you have my boots?"

"They're stripper boots. They're awesome. I like wearing them."

"They're not stripper boots. The heels aren't even that high. And they don't have lucite platforms."

You take my shoes, my shirts, my photographs, my sweatshirts, my makeup. It drives me insane. 

As you know, there are two things that truly send me into orbit. The first is when people grab things out of my hands. The other is when I put something away in the same place every time, but can't find it because some little turkey - i.e., you - has taken it without asking.  

But this is a teenage mother-daughter thing I will have to deal with, and I will. We have may battles and many joys yet to come. 

I can't wait. 

I love you to the moon and back.

Love love love,

Mom