On Friday morning, I boarded my flight to Chicago. Right foot first. Always. It was a big plane. And far from full. Clutching a vast coffee and a stack of tabloids and an orange for later, I made my way to the back. I waited and waited. But no one came. I had my own row. I was thrilled to be alone. To stretch out.

I watched the safety demonstration on the little television that popped out from the ceiling. And when it was our turn, we took off. I put my feet up. I looked out the window. The captain told us facts I didn’t absorb; about the flying conditions, the miles we would travel, the weather at our destination. Politely, he thanked us in advance for our business.

And there, all alone in seat 25C, I felt foolish for having been so worried. About leaving home. About flying. About everything. I told myself it was so silly to worry. That, patently, all would be fine.

But then. The plane started to shake. Hard. And it didn’t stop. When the plane started to tumble around, my mind went rogue, darting straight to the things that mattered. I thought of family. Of the people I love. And need.

And I thought of writing. I thought of that too.

Family. Writing. This is my life.

But mostly, I thought about how scared I was. Truly scared. That those moments might have been my last. And so. Not knowing how to handle my fear, I reached for my laptop. I pried it open. And I began to write, fingers flying, palms sweaty, mind racing, body quaking.

And this is what I wrote. Word for word. I feel strongly about not editing these words.

I think I am having an epiphany. Right here. Right now.

I am in the sky. Enveloped in thick, white clouds. They look pretty. They seem friendly. But they are not so. They are dense and drifting.

They are making me question everything.

A man, the same man, keeps coming on the loudspeaker. The pilot. I have never met this man. And yet I trust him. With my life. With our landing. His voice is gruff. His words, like the clouds, are cruel and choppy. He does not fool around. He makes no promises. He tells us to fasten our seat belts.

A chorus of clicks. People do as told. As if inserting metal into metal will really make a difference.

I sit here. All alone. Impossibly surrounded. A young man across the aisle snores. A little girl in pink dances and waves a croissant. People sip drinks and read books.

But I just sit here. Shaking.

Now that little girl screams. Her mother wrestles with her. Reasons with her. And maybe her ears hurt. And maybe she is scared. Her screams don’t bother me. They make sense to me.

Once upon a time, we were allowed to be scared.

It’s just turbulence, I tell myself as the engine hums because no one else is here to tell me this. It’s just turbulence.

I chide myself for being so scared. This is normal. It will pass. There will be smooth skies. This shaking will stop.

But right now? This doesn’t feel normal. This doesn’t feel okay. Reason and statistics mean nothing. Right here. Right now. I am scared to death.

That means something.

Life is a flight. We are on it together. We are in it alone.

We do not know when we will land. Or how.

We should allow ourselves to be scared when life’s skies shake us and stir us. We should allow ourselves to be scared when the blue fades and whiteness washes over us. When everything seems to be giving way to nothing.

We should allow ourselves to be scared when we feel scared.

I am going to start now.

__________________________

Wow. Reading this now, these words seem so, well, dramatic. And they are. Reading this now, it is hard for me to remember, to grasp, the fear that gripped me just a few days ago. But it did grip me.

The good news is that the vast vast majority of the time, I am not scared. Not like this at least.

But some of the time, I am.

I am scared of change. I am scared of standing still. I am scared of cancer. I am scared of death. I am scared of failure. I am scared of success. I am scared of aging. I am scared of being a bad parent. I am scared of closing doors. I am scared of rough skies. I am scared of being forgotten. I am scared of being scared.

I am scared of the unknown. I am scared of the known.

I am scared of many things.

It is okay to be scared. It is human to be scared.

I might have been all alone in Row 25 of that one plane, but I am not alone in this. We are all scared. (Yes, even you.)

But living in this world, I often get the sense that it is not okay to be scared. In this world, we are taught from a young age to banish our fears, to put up a front, to hold it together, to stifle our screams.

I just realized something. Just now. Something I’ve been doing (or not doing) without really realizing it. When Toddler cries and tells me she is scared of something, I don’t tell her that there is nothing to be scared of. No. Instead, I say something a bit different. I tell her that I understand that she is scared, that I know what it feels like, and that she is okay. It’s a small change to the parental script from which so many of us unconsciously read. A nuance I’m sure she doesn’t notice, but one I do. Now.

Ultimately, it might not be okay to be scared in this big, bad world. But here? In this odd little corner? On this odd little blog? Here, it is okay for me to be scared. Here, it is okay for me to explore the landscape of my fear. And so I will. Here, I will not apologize for being scared of the dark. And of the light. Of little things. And big. Of a hovering and happy past, of the inscrutable skies of present moment. Of my bright and beckoning future.

Here’s what I think: Life is turbulent. And I will ride it out because I, like you, have no choice. Because, at bottom, it’s a privilege to take this flight. But I refuse to pretend that the rough spots don’t exist.

Because they do.

__________________________________

What are you scared of? Do you find yourself stifling your own fears or denying they exist? Do you think women are permitted to display their fears more than men are? Do you think that we bloggers blog (and we writers write, etc) because in so doing we forge a safe space in which we can explore – and affirm – our own fears, and flaws, and hopes, and dreams? How do you handle literal and metaphorical turbulence?

In the morass of modernity, I think it is easy to lose track of what matters. I do. I think we are overstimulated, overwrought, overcaffeinated souls floating through busy and blurry days. I think we often get bogged down in details that don’t deserve us and tangled in technology that obscures our basic nature. I think we let good and simple things become camouflaged by concocted complexity, by artificial tension, by excuses, by expectations.

I think. I don’t know, but I think.

As some of you know, I went away for the weekend. My sister had a baby a little over a week ago and I made the trip to Chicago to meet him. This trip was not easy for me. I am a creature of home and habit and not a huge fan of flying. But I went. And, as predicted, I am so happy I did. I am happy for predictable, Hallmarkesque reasons and I am happy for reasons that are a bit more murky.

Predictable, Hallmarkesque Reasons: First and foremost, I got to meet Chickie. I got to hold him. I got to run my hand over his tiny head. I got to smell his newness and remember how impossibly soft newborn skin is. I got to hug my big sister. I got to congratulate the daddy of the moment on the arrival of his very first son. I got to snuggle and be silly with the big sister duo.

Murkier Reasons. This weekend was big for me. I am too close to it to explain why exactly, but I will give it a shot. It was big because I wandered outside my comfort zone and left home. It was big because I got on an airplane by myself and weathered the rough skies between Here and There. It was big because I glimpsed my sister’s world, her own breed of compelling chaos.

It was big because I realized what matters most to me, what has always mattered most to me: Family.

Family. That’s it. My number one.

As time passes, things are becoming more and more clear to me. Since Dad died, I have been a bit of a mess. I have been confused and angry and more than a bit sad. Confused about how to grieve and get on with my life. Angry that Mother Nature and cancer cells can shatter the snow globe of a big and beautiful family. Sad that we cannot have him back, that we must plow forward in his stinging absence.

And I have done a commendable job in distracting myself from these things. I have channeled Dad’s laser-like focus on work and professional passion. I have lost my taste for superficiality. I have not stopped writing and thinking and planning and plotting. And it’s exhausting. And more than being exhausting, it’s blurred my focus a bit.

My focus on family.

But this weekend. This weekend, with tears in my eyes, I kissed Husband and my girls goodbye. And I missed them instantly. On the plane, shaken by turbulence and realization, I had a bit of an epiphany which you will hear about tomorrow. And then I arrived. And plopped myself squarely in my sister’s world. A world of life and laughter and love.

A world of family.

I cradled a tiny baby who may or may not have Dad’s nose. I wrestled two little girls in a purple polka-dot bed. I celebrated my brother-in-law’s birthday. I talked with my two older sisters. (Sister I made the trip too.) About the impossible imperative to divide one’s maternal affection into three. About the closing of biological doors. About the enigma of balance. About the fibers of family.

And I was overcome with a wave of profound ambivalence which shocked me because I didn’t think ambivalence came in waves. I looked at my sister cradling her new boy, tending to her girls from afar. And I felt a tug.

“I want another baby,” I said. “But not yet. But I haven’t changed my mind. I still want four!”

“Have you thought about why you want so many kids?” Sister I asked me.

And it was a good question. A fair question. One to which I have given a lot of thought.

“Yes,” I said. “This. This chaos? This is what I want. I want a big family. I want the bustle.”

And I do. That is what I want. I want a tormenting excess of laughter and love. I want utter and impossible mayhem which tests every morsel of my being.

As my sisters and I talked, I noticed two pictures on the mantle above the fireplace. (Wherein this little guy got a wee bit charred.) The two pictures had one thing in common. Dad. In one picture, he wore a tux and walked Sister N down the aisle. In the other, he sat on the powder blue sofa where I spent so much of my weekend. He sat there, cradling her two girls. And this picture made me smile. But it also made me sad. Because Dad will never meet Baby or Baby Bulldog or little Chickie or any of the future Donnelley creatures. There won’t be these photo ops.

But there wasn’t time to wallow. And for that I was grateful. In no time, I was busy watching Sister I change a tiny diaper and collapsing into a puddle laughter when Chickie peed all over his itty-bitty Blackhawks jersey and his own little face. In no time, we were gathered around the dinner table scarfing Thai takeout, learning the names of various plastic dinosaurs, and singing a genius song called “Flavor Juice Fountain.”

Yesterday afternoon, I came home. At the front door, I was met by a man and two tiny girls. My man. My girls. I was serenaded by a sweet chorus of “Mommy.” And I dropped my suitcase and lost myself in hugs and kisses. And home.

This is it, I thought then and think now. This is what I want. This is what I have. This is what matters.

And when things grow more complicated again (oh and they will), when I begin to stress about blog traffic and book sales and jean sizes and renovation budgets, I will come back and read this post. I will read these clumsy words and remember the wonderful weekend I just enjoyed, and the realization that came with it. The realization that things can be quite simple if we let them be.

The realization that for me, family comes first. And always will.

____________________________________

Have you had moments when you were struck by such realizations? Do you agree that all the bells and whistles of modernity distract us from what matters? Do you think that wandering away often makes us appreciate what we have at home?

This is what happens when you bring an adorable newborn baby boy home to two smart, strong-willed little girls. (And when you have an open fire roaring all day long.)

Like this little Valentine’s pup, I survived my weekend in Chicago. But I do have a few stories to tell. Stay tuned…

(Warning: This is a whiny one. Wah.)

I head to Chicago today to see Sister N and her family and to meet her brand new baby boy. Chickie (his awesome alias) entered this fine world exactly a week ago and after some internal debate and bloggy banter here on the virtue and vice of advice-giving (and receiving), I am off. And I am excited.

But here’s the thing: I don’t want to go.

Let me explain. I want to go. I want to congratulate my sister and her husband. I want to snuggle her new addition. I want to play with my nieces who are newly-minted fellow big sisters. I want to do all of these things.

It’s just that I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave home and Husband and the girls.

It’s not that I’m lazy. (I am, but that’s not the point of this particular post.) It’s not that I hate to fly. (I do, but that’s not the point of this particular post.) It’s not that I hate to carry my own suitcase. (I do, but that’s not the point of this particular post.)

I don’t know what it is. But the thought of leaving for two whole days and two whole nights? It makes me sad and anxious. I say the thought because in actuality, I know I will be perfectly fine. I am a big girl. I will get myself to the airport with plenty of time. I will check in. I will sniff out some trashy gossip magazines and the nearest Starbucks. I will board my plane and exchange pleasantries with flight attendants and fellow passengers. I might even savor a little nap en route. And then I will arrive at my destination and find my way to my sister’s place. Once there, I will bounce around, doling out hugs and I will study the little man who just one week ago was cozy in my sister’s belly preparing for his debut. I will see if his great name fits him after all.

I know I will have a fantastic weekend. I know I will be so happy that I made the trip.

But now. I’m not so psyched. Why?

Maybe it is because my girls have entered a bit of a Mommy phase? Yes, that’s right. My girls who are utterly obsessed with their daddy have begun to think I am kind of cool. They chase me and hug me and bury their heads in my chest. They croon “MOMMY!” loudly and in unison when I leave the room. Baby has just begun to string words together and my favorite sentence of hers? “Hi, Mommy.” It’s a good one. Maybe a little part of me doesn’t want to go now because we are having this little mommy-daughter love fest and I worry that a weekend alone with Daddy will just convert them back to Daddy’s Girls?

Maybe it is because now that I am a parent I worry more about safety? I have never been a super adventurous chick, but these days I am a downright scaredy-cat. I have never adored flying, but now? I hate the idea of being alone in the air at the mercy of Mother Nature and a man-made machine where I have no guarantee that I will be safe. When my girls are out of my view, I do not have evidence of their well-being. Recently, one of my good friends mused about the core desire to feel safe. Intellectually, I know that flying is quite safe and that my girls will be just fine at home, but that feeling of worry? It’s at once very familiar and no fun.

Maybe it is because I know my girls will be fine and that I will be fine? Maybe I do not want to leave for a weekend because this will prove that I can leave for a weekend. That the Rowley household will go on without me. That Husband and the girls will not skip a beat. That they will laugh and sing and dance and watch Dora and take baths and will not miss me? Maybe I do not crave this reminder that I am not 100% needed, that I am in some sense dispensable?

Maybe I inherited this breed of anxiety and this distaste for travel? Growing up, my sisters and I went on many family trips. That is, with our parents. I cannot remember a time when my parents went away without us. I do remember times – and more recently – when Dad would travel for work, but I literally do not remember one occasion on which we were separated from Mom (who, by the way, does not fly at all). Maybe she bequeathed to me this lovely desire to stay put with little ones?

Maybe this is just an old school symptom of parenthood? Maybe this feeling, this gnawing anxiety and guilt (because, yes, this is probably a lot about guilt), is just part and parcel of parenthood? Maybe it is very normal to be a bit sad about saying goodbye even if it is only for a weekend? Maybe, once we have children, we naturally evolve into homebodies and develop a taste for cuddling on couches. Maybe, once we have children, the stakes are that much higher and we are increasingly aware of our own mortality and responsibility and fear?

Maybe I am just a mess? Maybe I am an overthinking, anxiety-prone, complainer? Maybe I am a spoiled soul who chooses not to recognize the good fortune of having and hands-on and supportive husband? Of being able to pay for a last minute ticket? Of being able to spontaneously hop a plane to travel and roll around in the incomparable joy of new life? Maybe I just like to see the rough spots on a smooth existence?

Could very well be.

I don’t know. What I do know is that I am cutting myself off now. What I do know is that I will be back here Monday telling you all about my wonderful trip and the sweet face of my new nephew. (Or, I might be here this weekend with some pictures of the little guy if my sister lets me!) What I do know is that it is probably good for me – and for my kids – that I get away from time to time. What I do know is that you are kind to humor me by sticking with me to the bitter end of this meandering woe is me post.

____________________________________

Why is this so hard for me? Is it hard for you to leave home too? Do you get anxious about travel? Did your parents travel without you when you were young? If you have kids, is it hard for you to leave them? Has parenthood or adulthood made you more averse to adventure and risk and travel? Am I a big baby? If you are at a loss for words, feel free to tell me I am not alone. And then wish me a safe flight!

Dear You,

I’m going to come right out and say it: I’ve been having an affair.

For going on a year, we’ve been having a ball. And by ball, I mean blog. I’ve spilled speckles of self and you’ve lapped them up. And asked for more. You’ve left a trail of tender words here – seen and felt. And I’ve savored each one. Each day, I’ve kissed you good morning and good night. I’ve followed you home, holding your virtual hand, going where led. Skipping beside you. In your bloggy bed, we’ve cuddled, waxing poetic about the universe we shoulder and share. And each night, as we nod off, shutting down soul and self and psyche, you’ve whispered sweet nothings – and sweet everythings – into my ear. And I into yours.

There have been bloggy butterflies. Alighting, flying with purpose, landing softly and uncertainly on the edge of understanding. The precipice of discovery. Our bond has been at once fragile and foolproof, ragged and robust, full of affection and wonder and desire. I have come to need you. Your ideas. Your perspective. Your questions. I have come to crave your attention, your approval, your applause. My days are good because you are in them.

But last week something happened. I encountered a dark and brooding and beautiful ex.

The Novel.

And we’ve been spending some time together. Stolen moments. Late at night. Early in the day. Sometimes in the middle of it all; in the broad and boastful sunlight. And, during these times, I realized something I have known all this time.

I have missed him.

He is a bad boy. He broods and beckons. Define me, he says. Tell my story. I dare you. His blank pages are alluring and alarming. Into them, I dive and flail and come close to drowning. Time with him is less certain. I spend moments and hours and days in his presence and often have nothing to show for it. Just a confused heart. A mangled mind. And a blank page.

And yet. I need him. I crave his company. He captures me and challenges me and chides me. In his orbit, life grows murky. In his shadow, I see a surplus of stories. My stories. Your stories. Our stories. Impossible stories unfurling and unfolding. Of life and death. Of light and dark. Of salvation and struggle. When holding his hand, I feel safe and shaky. Clawed by confidence. Intoxicated by insecurity. Tangled in truth.

So, he’s back. And he needs me. And I need him too.

So here I am. Caught in the magical middle. Awash in anxiety that by being with both of you, I’m really with neither of you. That in splitting myself, I’m losing myself.

And you.

I write these words because I’ve been feeling a bit naughty and wanted to fess up. Here I am seeking your forgiveness for my wandering pen and heart and mind. Here I am telling you where I am when I am not with you, curled up, stroking your back, saying I love you.

But know this: I do love you. More deeply than you know. And I hope that you stay with me. Even though I’m not perfectly committed. Even though I am philandering with fiction.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

________________________________________

Are you monogamous when it comes to blogging or do you cheat on your blog and write elsewhere? How do you handle the split focus of affection? Do you find it difficult to juggle your loves? Do you ever feel like you are cheating on one aspect of your life (family, profession, etc) when you are spending time with another? Is this existential infidelity just part of life? Feel free to talk about actual affairs too. That would be very interesting and wonderful material for this blog. Oh, and for my next novel(s). (Don’t be jealous.)

***This post was inspired by my guilt about devoting time to something other than my blog and by my virtual sisters’ fabulous Love It Up challenge. Head on over to Momalom between now and Valentine’s Day to read some other love letters…***