Easter Sunday evening. The sky cracked open. Rain tumbled down. Under my breath, I cursed the weather. Husband yanked the canopy over our tiny creature’s car seat. But they? My big girls? They squealed and frolicked and danced. They twirled and threw their hands up as their faces and hair and bodies grew soaked. “Rain!” they chanted, in unison, between infectious giggles.

And I hung back watching them. As they skipped together and celebrated the storm. I couldn’t help but smile.

We had one extra umbrella and I offered it to them to share. I popped it open and handed it over. And they didn’t fight over it, or poke themselves with the spokes like I feared. They each held it with one hand. And, together, they walked.

And I followed. Amazed. Proud. There they were. My big girls huddled together, trouping through sidewalks and time and life, weathering the storm.

In those moments, those transitional moments of another Easter Sunday, I watched them, my girls, and was flooded with thoughts.

They are my big girls but they are also little people. Little people who won’t be little for long.

They are sisters and they will always have each other. In rain or shine, in youth or age.

They might not remember this rain-soaked night or this stage of their lives, but I will remember for them. For all three of them. When they are older, when rain no longer delights them, we will sit around the kitchen island, the four of us girls, and I will tell them about this tiny slice of their childhood. A night when it rained hard and they got drenched and were so happy.

They will look at me, my big girls, pinning me with matching blue eyes and sweet smiles and say, “Mom, What’s the big deal? It rained and we shared an umbrella?!”

And I will say to them, “It wasn’t really a big deal but also it was.”

And I will look at my littlest girl and say, “You were only eleven pounds. Can you believe you were once that tiny?”

And because she has learned from her big sisters, she will say, “Mom, yes, once upon a time I was a newborn. What’s the big deal?”

I will try to explain to them that sometimes, often, the biggest deals, the most piercing realizations and most potent emotions and most exquisite life, are really the littlest deals, the tiny moments. Still, they will not quite understand. And then I will say it, something terribly cliched that embarrasses them, “One day you might. You will just be going about your day, an average day, and then you will glimpse the creatures you love, and everything else will melt away. You will feel something profound, something that borders on spiritual. You might not even have the words to describe it. And so, you will take a picture. And so, you will do anything you can to remember this.”

And the three of them, my girls, wanting their mother’s cryptic monologue to end, will smile. They will look at me and say it, even though they don’t really need to, even though I know. Before they scatter to do their homework and text their friends and live their lives, they will say words that never get old.

“We love you too, Mom.”

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Have you ever experienced moments like this where you are just living your life and going about existence and you are slammed with a profound image or realization? Do you remember a time when you celebrated being caught in the rain?

The royal wedding. It’s tomorrow. And, yes, I will probably tune in for a bit. I’m not entirely immune to all the hype and hoopla. I don’t exactly understand why the world seems so utterly obsessed with Will and Kate’s nuptials though. Are we hard-wired or socially conditioned to be intrigued by regal sparkle? Are we interested because this is the playing out of a real life fairy tale?

I’m not so sure.

Truth be told, it amazes me that so many people are counting down and collecting souvenirs like Will/Kate toilet seats and Will/Kate standard-sized fridges. I even saw that there are royal wedding-themed condoms on the market. They are called “Crown Jewels.”

No comment.

So. I fall into the category of people who is neither obsessed nor disinterested in this historical happening. I will watch a bit, lap up some of the luscious imagery, and then get on with my life. That’s the plan at least.

One thing that I am a bit more interested in is a debate that has sprung up around this union. Per the media, Prince William does not plan to wear a wedding ring.

Is it acceptable if a man chooses not to wear a wedding ring? I’m not sure what I think about this. Dad, a loving and loyal husband and father, never wore a ring. I never quite asked him why. Husband does wear a ring and I love that he does. I like seeing that strip of platinum on his hand. It reminds me of our big day six-plus years ago, the commitment we have made – and continue to make – to each other.

I haven’t told many people this, but Husband did lose his ring once. I was quite pregnant with Baby, and more than a bit hormonal, and my man lost his wedding ring while body-surfing with friends in the ocean and, well, I was not happy. Truth be told, I ripped into him and told him that losing the ring was indeed an ominous sign, symbolic of storms ahead. He said sorry. Over and over. We went shopping in downtown Charleston. He found a replacement ring. I got over it.

Recently, Sister N also lost her wedding band. She, too, lost it to the ocean waters while snorkeling. The fact that she was able to promptly hire a metal-detector-man to scour the seas and shore where she lost her diamond ring leads me to believe this happens a fair bit. I wonder how many rings there are hiding in the waters of our world?

And so. On the eve of the royal wedding, I am thinking about rings. What really do they mean? Do they really matter? Is it problematic if a man (or a woman) refuses to wear a ring or is it just a matter of personality and preference?

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Will you watch the wedding tomorrow? Why do think so many people are obsessed with this event? What do you make of the fact that William does not plan to wear a wedding ring? How important do you think it is that married people wear rings? Why or why not?

“Born originals, how comes it to pass that we die copies?”

Edward Young

Once upon a time.

Once upon a time, I was a little tomboy who wore a Larry Bird jersey to my fifth grade class every time the Celtics had a home game.

Once upon a time, I played the trumpet in an all-boys jazz band and soccer on an all-boys soccer team.

Once upon a time, I made little earrings out of plastic airplanes.

Once upon a time, I asked questions like: What is self?

Once upon a time, I ate mayonnaise and white bread sandwiches and composed songs about Kareem Abdul Jabbar’s bald head.

Once upon a time, I was an original, wacky thing.

Today.

Today I am a thirty-something quasi-bottled blonde. A wife and mother who wears black yoga pants and buys toys and organic produce and stresses about sleep and safety and baby weight.

Today I go on “date night” with Husband and love manicures and pedicures and when my kitchen is clean.

Today I long for the quintessential things: health and happiness. For them. For me.

Today I bemoan the passage of time, how it tricks me and tames me, of how fast it flies.

Today, I am in some ways, so many ways, a copy.

How did this happen?

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Do you agree with the quote above, that we lose our originality as we grow older? Is this just part of growing up or does it say something sinister about conformity? How do you retain some modicum of originality in your adult life?

In my post yesterday, I did something a bit unfair. Maybe you noticed. Maybe you didn’t.

I wrote about how I was walking along the city streets near Toddler’s school when I read an article on my phone that stirred something – a creative spark, an existential flame, a flicker of rejuvenation. Those of you who read closely – or who are just curious – might have noticed that I neither linked to that article nor mentioned the name of it. This was not an oversight on my part; It could very well have been an example of Mommy Brain, but this time it wasn’t. It was intentional. That post? It was not so much about the words I read, but about the feeling they caused in me. A feeling for which I am more than thankful because here I am blogging again, sending bits of self into this odd and exquisite ether we have come to call the Blogosphere.

But today? Today I will mention the article. It’s from the New York Times and called Look at Me, I’m Crying. In it, author and New York-based writing professor Melissa Febos explores, exquisitely in my estimation, the phenomenon of public crying in the specific context of Manhattan. She confesses that she herself has cried many times in public and that there is perhaps something about this particular urban jungle – with its concomitant paucity of space and traditional privacy – that goes hand in hand with breaking down in public spaces.

The article spoke to me on many levels – of style, of content, of vulnerability. Reading it, I remembered the last time I cried in public. It wasn’t too long ago. It was a very rainy evening and I was on my way to get a manicure. I made a quick call on my cell. The call was meant to be short and simple. But something happened, a rush of emotion, a rapid unraveling, and there I was, suddenly in a tempest of tears, thick and violent tears, on a street corner. I wonder what people thought of me – a very pregnant ponytailed girl huddled under a broken umbrella sobbing uncontrollably in front of a Starbucks. In retrospect, I realize that many people saw me, they must have, but no one stopped to ask me if I was okay.

That’s New York for you. That’s one of the many things I love about this place.

It seems that Febos and I are in agreement on this. She, like me, falls into the camp of people who do not want to be asked what’s wrong in a situation like this. Febos writes,

For me, it’s not that I want apathy, just privacy. To be noticed, but not interrupted. It’s comforting to be seen in our grief, there is a confirmation in it — however awkward it makes us feel. Is that part of why we live here? New Yorkers do tend to be the kind of people with both a need to be seen, and a deep fear of it. Somehow, this place satisfies both.

Yes! I am the kind of person who needs to be seen, but who is also immensely fearful of this very thing. Isn’t that why I blog? To be seen in my iterations of insecurity and grief and utter humanness? But isn’t blogging also evidence of a true desire to hide a bit, too? If we really wanted to be seen, to shine a light on ourselves however cracked those selves might be, would we really duck behind a screen to do so?

Here, in this city, I am somehow able to be seen for who it is I am and hide who it is I am.

Here, on this blog, I am somehow able to be seen for who it is I am and hide who it is I am.

Ultimately, I’m not really sure what this post is about. Is it really about literary inspiration? Is it really about crying in public? Is it really about New York neuroses? I’m not so sure, but that’s okay. What I do know is that these words are about me and part of me, a creature ever-confused and ever-curious. A creature who has cried in the rain and written through her pain. A creature who wants to be noticed and is deeply afraid of being seen.

Yes, these words are about me. A creature who is happy to be back here in this place, this little corner soaked in life’s abundant rain, thinking and asking. And trying. Always trying. To see. To know. To understand. To make sense of it all.

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Have you ever cried in public? Did people ask if you were okay? Did you want them to? What do you do when you see a stranger crying? Do you blog or write out of a need to be seen and/or a fear of being seen? Do you ever write something without knowing what it is really about?

I spent last Thursday morning on a flower field trip with Toddler and her Preschool class. We took the “city bus” to the Central Park Conservatory. After a brutal winter and a gaggle of gray weeks, it was finally a glorious day here in Manhattan. A glorious day and a perfect day to troupe with tiny ones around a spectacular spot full of sun and soul, wind and wisdom, color and life, bitty buds and full-blown blossoms.

We had a list of flowers to look for. We found most of them, and when we did, we checked off the identifying pictures with purple crayon check marks. But a few trees had not yet bloomed. But the kids were neither deterred nor disappointed. With big eyes and open minds, they approached these trees and peered through their mini magnifying glasses at the branches full of green buds waiting to pop. And as they did this, I smiled. I smiled as a silly pair of questions floated through my head.

What does a bud experience when it’s about to burst? What does a flower feel like when it’s about to bloom?

They are silly questions because buds don’t have experiences and flowers don’t feel. They are silly questions only a child would ask. In my estimation, they are wonderful questions. The kinds that come before common sense settles in and education elevates.

After the field trip, I dropped Toddler off at her school for the short remainder of her day. To kill time before pickup, I walked a few blocks to grab a coffee. Coffee in hand, I walked slowly, aimlessly, along sidewalks that felt at once familiar and foreign. I looked around. At the flurry of faces splotched by spring sun. At the slow-shifting clouds and cars. I fiddled with my phone, clicking a little link to something big. An article. And I read. In seconds, I lost myself. In words, exquisite and evocative words, words that made me feel something major.

A swelling of pressure, of purpose, of power.

This feeling is something I’ve been waiting for. Since having my baby, I’ve been floating. On hormones. On humility. On helplessness and hopefulness. On happiness. I’ve felt wonderfully scattered and beautifully stuck and delightfully distant. Distant from many things. From most things. From my former self, my future dreams, my words. In the cracks of my days and the quiet of the night, I’ve told myself not to worry. I’ve told myself that a time would come when I’d feel it.

A creative rumbling. A poetic returning. An existential roar.

And last Thursday? I felt it.

And today, on this Monday morning at the end of April? I still feel it.

And so. As the sun shimmies through the window on me and my new life and what’s to come, I’m smiling.

What does a bud experience when it’s about to burst? What does a flower feel like when it’s about to bloom?

I imagine it experiences this. I imagine it feels like this.

This.

(I’m back, kids! Really back!)

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Have you ever felt so full of happy anticipation and creative chaos that you might just burst? Have you ever read something that was so good and so true it made you want to sit down and write and write and write some more? Are you happy that it’s finally feeling a bit like spring?