**Author’s note** There are a few expletives laced in this piece.  While I’ve read that cursing can detract from the story, I’m relating events as they happened and that includes some colorful language that was used at the time.

It’s been almost a month since I posted last and everything has happened.

The kids have been out of school for three weeks. We’ve done a road trip to see my parents. Day camp has started. We’ve gone to the library. We’ve gone to the pool every.single.day. We’ve had breakfast (and a snack), lunch (and a snack), snack (and a snack), dinner (and a snack), and dessert (and a snack). In the in between times, I’ve been putting the finishing touches on the 50th Wedding Anniversary party I’m  throwing for my parents, finalizing plans for my 20th high school reunion (Hi, I’m Hilary with One L, Class of 1996 Class Agent), and packing the girls up for three weeks of sleep away camp.  You know, doing nothing but being a stay-at-home mom.

And then a tree fell on the house.

Last week Thursday, there was an EPIC storm that blew through #RVA around 10pm. The Hubs and I were in the bed, faces bathed in that pearlescent glow of our respective iPads. I was watching “The League” (meh), he’s watching Game of Thrones O.J. Made in America: Part 1 The kids were asleep and the house had been shut down for the evening.  Despite the chatter from my device, I started hearing some serious wind and rain picking up outside.  What started off as a little bit of drizzle has now picked up significantly in intensity over a matter of minutes.  I turn to the Hubs and say, “Are you hearing this? ”

“Yup,” he says, pulling an earbud out of his ear. “I’ve been hearing it.” Then he turns his attention back to his show.  At this point, I’m still sitting in the bed, marveling at the sounds of nature. The wind is ferocious, its voice loud as it mimics a fleet of 18 wheelers downshifting on our street.  My mind digs into its file folder of sound associations and flips open to a memory of my mother telling me, “Tornadoes sound like freight trains.”

That’s my last thought just as the lights blink out.  As quickly as they cut off, they turned back on. The wind gave an angry shout, the lights blinked off again, and then a massive cracking sound gave way to a thunderous crash as our house shook like the hand of God slapped it.  The Hubs grabbed me by the arm — or maybe it was my ankle, it happened so fast — flipping me off the bed as he yelled, “Get on the floor!”

In the dark, we commando crawled to the children’s rooms to grab M, C, and V, who (mercifully) had slept through it.  Slithering downstairs to the first floor, we piled into the lowest point of the house — the laundry room — and proceeded to wait for the storm to subside.  Keeping the girls comfortable and calm was our priority as we listened to the wind scream and branches scratch and skitter across the roof and exterior walls.

After a while, we moved everyone into the dining room.  Using some blankets from the living room, the girls concocted a nest while the Hubs and I grabbed flashlights to figure out what was going on.

“I hear water,” he said as we made our way back up to our bedroom. Sure enough, a cascade of rain was coming down from the door jamb leading into our bedroom.  While he surveyed that damage, I made my way to the third floor.  Our third floor is separated from the second floor by 15 steps which are book-ended by doors.  I opened the first door and shined the light up the steps, thinking, “This is exactly the point in the slasher movies when the audience yells, ‘Don’t go up the stairs!'”

So, I went up the stairs.

I opened the second door, thinking, “This is exactly the point in the slasher movies when the audience yells, ‘Don’t open the door!'”

So, I opened the door.

Seriously, I’m Black and I’m a female — if this really were a movie, I’d a been a casualty before the opening credits faded to black.

I shined the flashlight around and let the beam pick up the array of scattered toys, Legos, books and so forth. Everything looked pretty much as I remembered it from the other day.  I shined the light on the door to my office.  I hadn’t been up there to write in a few days (that’s another story), but I was pretty sure that I hadn’t closed the door when I left.  And even if I had, I wouldn’t have closed it as tightly as I now found it when I pressed my fingers to it.

This is exactly the point in the slasher movies when the audience yells, “Don’t open the door!”

So, I opened it.

And there was a big ass tree in my office.

Branches. Boughs. Leave. Limbs.

In my office.

Covering my stuff.

Obliterating my desk.

Disrespecting my workspace.

I slowly backed out, closing the door behind me, swallowed the scream that was percolating in my lungs, and eased myself back downstairs.  The Hubs met me on the landing, shining his flashlight in my face.  “You shouldn’t have gone up there!”

“There’s a tree.  In my office.  A tree is there. In my office. A big ass tree. In my office.”

What happened after that is pretty much a blur.   I know that shortly thereafter the ceiling in the living room started to leak in several different spots.  We took all of the art work off of the walls. We moved furniture away from the spouts of water popping up (or would that be down?) from the ceiling.  We were collecting water in pots, pans, and plastic party buckets usually reserved for bottles of beer and cans of soda.  Some how the kids fell asleep. At some point, I did, too, from some combo of fear, exhaustion and self preservation).  The Hubs, God bless him, saved all of my photo albums and pictures.  He stayed up, bailing and keeping us safe.

At first light, he and I left the girls safely sleeping to go see what exactly had transpired. Lounging across the top of our house, like La Maja Desnuda, was a giant oak poplar tree.

Fuuuuuuuuuuck.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fuck.

There was a tree, lounging on my roof like, “I’mma just hang for a minute and catch my breath from fucking up your shit. Thanks!”

The Hubs and I did a slow walk around the house to see the extent of the damage.  Extensive would be accurate.  The tree landed on the peak, hit the slope, forked the chimney and punctured the two windows of my office.  It’s a miracle (and I don’t use that word lightly) that it didn’t collapse into our bedroom, which is right below the office.

It’s a miracle, my mother was quick to remind me, that I wasn’t up there working.

So while that disrespectful oak tree was making a home in my eaves and rafters, I keeping repeating to myself, “We’re alive. We’re okay. It’s just stuff.”

We’re alive. We’re okay. It’s just stuff. . .

is what I said to myself as we began the process of getting the tree removed, filing claims with the insurance company, inventorying everything that was damaged, salvaging what I can, and tossing out everything in the fridge.

We’re alive. We’re okay. It’s just stuff. . .

is what I said to myself as the five of us (!!!!!) spent Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in a hotel room.

We’re alive. We’re okay. It’s just stuff.  . .

is what I told my parents and our extended family who came for the 50th Wedding Anniversary celebration Saturday evening, which turned out to be the best distraction (thank you, my handsome husband for pressing me to move forward with that because I was thisclose to cancelling).

We’re alive. We’re okay. It’s just stuff. . .

is what I tell myself when the stress of adulting on a level I hadn’t planned on experiencing has my throat thick with the burn of tears ready to fall.  And again, my brain digs flips through my mental Rolodex before settling on the time when a hurricane blew through Hampton Roads about 8 years ago.  My friend lost her entire home.  I don’t mean a tree fell on it, I mean, the storm blew it apart, ejecting her mother and her daughter into the lake at the back of the property.  They lived. They were okay.

We’re alive. We’re okay. It’s just stuff. . .

Friends who saw my IG posts and FB posts from the week-end are stunned when I tell them what all transpired.

“Are you kidding?” they ask. “I saw the picture of you out at dinner.  Wasn’t it your anniversary, too? And weren’t you at brunch on Sunday?”

Yes, yes, and yes. Laughing to keep from crying, I guess.

My brain sets aside the memory Rolodex and moves over to the Big Book of Platitudes. Scanning, scanning, scanning for one to close this post before closing the book.

We’re alive.

We’re okay.

It’s just stuff. 

So I started this post last week. Seven days ago! And I had every intention of proofreading it, adding jazzy images, and doing all the little niceties that come with crafting a sweet blog post.  Then life happened.  Or rather, I got sucked down the rabbit hole of end of year activities that has me crashing into bed each evening chanting, “Just a few more days, just a few more days. . .”

What is happening?  Seriously? The days piling up stacks of schoolwork excavated from the children’s desks.  V’s 4th birthday has come and gone. Her last day of school was yesterday –eep! The Mother’s Day cards and graduation cards at Target have been swapped out for Father’s Day cards, 4th of July paraphernalia is cajoling customers to wrap themselves in red, white and blue.  

It’s Friday again, a day of the week that I usually am happy to see, but it’s the last one of May of 2016 and I’m looking around like,”What is going on?”

Me looking at iCal

I can clearly remember setting up for Christmas. I was outside pounding pavement Christmas Day, starting my training for the Monument Avenue 10K that was months away in April.  It was 70 degrees that day!

A few weeks later, we had Snowmageddon 2016.  The snow fell fast and furiously, piling up like concert goers for port-a-potties.   We had snow. We had the fireplace going.  We had snow days that were kind of tolerable (and I will deny I said that if anyone ever calls me on it).  We had a snippet of winter, which I won’t complain about, but we haven’t really had a spring. Last week, the weather was hovering in the 50s and I was still wearing a North Face jacket like it’s November.  

Then, Mother Nature got her act together. She brought summer temps with a ferocity, jacking up the mercury to hover around 88 over the last few days.  All of the short that I picked up at the end of February (proper prior planning) are finally being put to use. My winter body was hanging tough, but miraculously, this year’s booty fits into last years summer gear.

Last week, the girls came home with their yearbooks.  Their YEARBOOKS! That meant there was only one more full week of school before the closing programs. You know closing program? When you get up and get dressed like a regular school day, drop them off at 8 for the final assembly that starts at 8:30, only to then pick them up at 8:54 and then they look at you like, “What’re we going to do now?”

What is happening? 

A few week-ends ago, when the rain was so exhausted from falling for 40 days and nights that it took a day off, I cleaned the shed. I organized the pool toys and the beach toys.  I inflated the tires in the bikes and detangled the jump ropes. I bent the hula hoops back into shape and I made sure all of the bubble wands had bubble juice in them.   I pulled out the trunks for camp, started sorting all of the necessary items into hers and hers piles.  The pool notices for Memorial Day kick off flooded my inbox and because I have a can do attitude, I put into effect an article I read about how to clean the grill by firing the burners on high, closing the lid and letting it melt off the gristly bits for 20 minutes. The house is still standing and I still have my eyebrows. Next time, I’d rather just get a new grill.

End of the year means my chits for the fall are being called. Things that I planned in the wintry doldrums are now popping up like, “Hey, girl! Time to execute this plan.” The calendar pages keep updating, despite my best intentions to stave them off.  It’s like I’m standing on the shore, a tidal wave bearing down on me and I’m holding a paper parasol that would better suited pinning a maraschino cherry into a Mai Tai.  

My poor little neglected blog!  With the exception of V’s birthday shout out, I haven’t been doing much.  It’s not that I haven’t been writing at all  —  I’ve been putting in work on my novel concept, aiming for at least 500 words a day.  I’ve got 75 pages of somewhat coherent and connected thought. I was telling a friend that at this juncture, I’m just trying to get the ideas down as fast as they come. I’m beading a necklace, I told her, and sometime the beads look good together and sometimes they don’t. So, I pull some beads off, rearrange the patter, put some new beads on and keep stringing.  I’m not quite Etsy shop ready, but there’s potential. 

Today is the last full day of school for M & C.  This week-end is Memorial Day, the official start of summer.   Unsurprisingly, the calendar is freckled with activities that will carry us to the second week of August where the hub-bub drops off precipitously.  My hope is that me and the warriors three will make the best use of that time.  There will be cook-outs with ketchup stained paper plates and hikes over to the neighborhood ice creamery for dessert.  

There will be sidewalk chalk race tracks and scooters zipping around the driveway.

There will be bubble juice and every conceivable contraption to make bubbles.

There will be sprinklers, slip-and-slides, and new bathing suits.

There will be trips to the pool and the playground.

There will be Popsicle stained mouths and dirt stained knees.

There will be bug bites and lightning bugs trapped in jelly jars.

There will trips to Alleghany, the Vineyard, to the grands.

There will be tank tops,  flip-flops, and tan lines.

There will be sun soaked smiles. . .

There will be the last day of May, coming in hot, ushering in all of these summer plans, calling out, “Let’s get started. . .”

Yes, let’s get started.

A few months ago, I wrote a post about what I know about parenting.  It was a brief post to be sure, you can read it in its entirety here, but there were some highlights.

• This shiggity is hard.
• If you wonder whether you’re doing a good job, you probably are.
• If you have more than one child, you’re going to need more than one parenting style.
• This shiggity is hard.

Yes, the level of difficulty that comes with parenting bear repeating.  Just when I think I’ve got something figured out, a switch-up ensues.  I’m trying to raise kind, conscientious, mentally strong contributing members of society.  When they start fighting with each other over who has more Frosted Mini Wheats in their cereal bowl and why it’s not fair they have to wash their faces everyday when they just washed them yesterday morning, I wonder if I’ll even live long enough to see the fruits of my labor.  I’m perpetually thisclose to just opening the front door and walking out.

Before you call child protective services on me, I’m not really going to walk out. If anyone’s leaving, it’s them.  Kidding!

The truth is, we’ve been having a rough few days. Add to that Spring Break is lurking in the doorways, reminding me that I have no plans whatsoever.  On the one hand, I have an old school parenting mentality that tells me it’s not my job to entertain my children. They have each other. They have toys and books and games and outside! Yes, outside! Fresh air and bikes and scooters and balls, bats, and gloves.  Go forth, young woman and play!

When they’ve got friends who say, “My idea of camping is staying in a crappy hotel,” they are less than inclined.

On the other hand, I’ve got a more modern (?) take on parenting, where I want for my kids to have what I’ve had and better. In my head, I’ve got a tentative plan that includes a movie day, mani/pedi day, spring shoe shopping day, and a science museum day.  We’ll go out to lunch! We’ll hit up Starbucks!  We’ll go to Barnes & Noble AND the library!  We’ll take #usies and blow up people’s Instagram feeds!

I haven’t shared this with the girls, though, because inevitably what happens is while I’m kind of jazzed by my own ideas, their faces go from bright and shiny to dull and disappointed as I tick off each option. It never fails; whenever I have shared with them what I think is going to be a super-fun-happy-cool time, the words have barely left my mouth before they’re asking me if they can do something else.

This is where I go back to the whole parenting is hard thing.  I think I’m cultivating an attitude of gratitude in my girls, but when their response is “meh” or “what else is there?”, I start to question what I’ve been doing the last ten years.  When I treat them to something unexpected and they’ve still got their hands out for more, I wonder which chapter in the manual I must have skipped because I’ve done everything else and now we’re here.

I can admit it, my feelings get hurt (insert sad trombone noise). And then I spend my copious free time unraveling the threads of my parenting choices trying to figure out which one created the wonky pattern in the fabric.

I would have loved to have had a week of adventures and day trips with my mom growing up.  And did I mention that V will still in be in school while M&C are off for the week? Big Girl/Mommy time is hard to come by.  Unless I hit them with 1) Great Wolf Lodge 2)Any Disney theme park 3) 10 days at a Sandals/Beaches/sun and surf all-inclusive resort,  they want no parts of it.

God forbid I mention a visit to the grandparents in good ol’ Chesapeake.

M said one of her friends, who is going to Orlando for the break, offered to text her everyday so that, “It would be like you’re right here with me!” Yeah, no, little girl.  Don’t do that. I beg of you.

Parenting means making hard choices, right? I’d love to have some sun and surf over spring break.  It would be nice to bring the girls along, too.  However, that’s not a choice we can make right now (the degree of how hard it is to make this particular choice is moot).  What I’m offering is still way more than a bunch of other kids get to experience. I hate that I even have to compare us to anyone else. I have tried to explain (?!) to the girls why we are going to do the activities that I’ve picked out. I’m the adult and I’m explaining my choices to my children. What is happening here?! A parenting choice, I guess. I’m choosing to get into this explanation foray in a foolish attempt to make them — and me — feel better.

Really, it’s me just saying, “This is what we are doing because this is what works for our family.”

Behind those words, I’m really saying, “Look, I know you want to go away. I want to go away, too. But, we’re not going away, so I’m trying to make the next few days as enjoyable for all of us as possible because I’m your mom and I love you and I don’t want you to resent me when you’re older and decide that despite your myriad of success and strengths, you do have an Achilles Heel and whatever it is, it  is directly related to the fact that your mother never took you to Beaches to swim with the dolphins when you were 10.”

Whew. I know it’s not true, but that’s what on my heart. I’m doing the best I can and I just don’t want to mess up these little souls that have been entrusted to me.

At the end of the day, I stand by what I said before:  If you wonder whether you’re doing a good job, you probably are.  There are days when I feel like I’m treading water with anchors on my ankles.  I have no idea what I’m doing, I don’t want to make another kid friendly meal. I can’t listen to the Teen Titans Go! theme song any more.  I’m about to install a regulation sized boxing ring in the backyard rather than mediate another who-said-what-to-whom or who’s-breathing on-whom-type conflagration. When I’m over saturated with motherhood, that’s when I stop and think, “Am I even doing a good job? How could I be when it feels like I’m in the eye of the storm?” But I have to believe the mere fact that I stop to wonder that, or wonder what I can do in order to survive the storm, makes me think I’m doing okay.  And if I need to hide out in the bathroom for 10 or 15 minutes just scrolling through my Instagram feed until I feel better, then that’s what I need to do.

I’m @curly_girlie78

See you in 15. . .