Writing is a lonely business. There is no way around it. If you write words, you know this.

And yet. There are ways that it can become a little less lonely.

One way is to find a friend. A bud. A partner-in-crime.

Someone who writes words too. Someone who gets it. Someone who knows.

I have found this person.

And in a relatively short time, I have come to know her and love her.

She is a mother and a thinker and a writer.

Like me. Like many of you.

And I have pushed her. To start her own site.

And today. On her birthday (40!), she is launching that site.

And so. I ask you to pop over. To visit. To say hi.

And to say thank you. Maybe that too. For making this writer a happy camper.

And for saving this writer a spot at Starbucks & Coffee Bean.

{So many times.}

Oh, and it doesn’t hurt that her Kiddo is one of Big Girl’s besties.

Here they are {with Middle Girl} after Phineas & Ferb Live.

Comments are closed here today. Please swing by my friend Heather Chaet’s brand new site to say hi and happy birthday!

A baby is born. And she is beautiful.

She is a good size. She is screaming. Pink. Perfect.

9/9 Apgar.

A text is sent: She is here!

Time passes. Moments. Minutes.

Another text: Something’s not right with her ears.

Four days pass and no one knows. Can she hear now? Will she ever hear? Will she hear her mother’s words, her father’s jokes, her big brother’s music? Will she hear the world?

An appointment. A test. Results. Her inner ear is good. She can hear some. She will hear more.

There is a diagnosis. Foreign words, fancy words. Bilateral Microtia. Atresia.

Chances? Something like 1/26,000. There is no known cause.

There will be surgeries. There will be struggles. There will be snuggles.

There is a headband. Two tiny boxes. Boxes that vibrate, boxes that allow her to hear it all. Her mother’s words, her father’s jokes, her brother’s music, the world.

It’s a new road. And this little girl will walk it. Her parents and brother will walk it. We will walk it with them.

There have been tears. There have been fears. There will be more of these things.

But there has been learning. And loving. Fierce loving. More of it than you can imagine.

This is life. And she will listen to it. And they will.

And we will. I will.

And it will be a privilege, a different kind of privilege, to do so.

A baby is born. And she is beautiful.

She is a good size. She is screaming.

Pink.

Perfect.

*

I asked C if she wanted to write something. Something that I would post here. And she said yes, she would like that. But earlier this week – as we exchanged a series of absolutely wonderful and real late-night emails – C wrote the following words, words she said I could include here:

I think I will write about this, it’s just a matter of when. I’ve sat down and tried a few times, but it didn’t work, and I was jolted back to college to the moments when I would try to write a paper before I was really ready. I’ve always needed to think, reflect, process before I write – and then writing helps me sort through all of that thinking to crystallize how I feel and what I really think. So I’ll do it, I just don’t know when. And I know it doesn’t have to be just once, but something about all of this is tugging at me like there’s something really profound lurking in there – about what this means for us, for her, for who she’ll be – but it’s going to take time (and clarity and sleep – not in that order) to tease it out.

*

It goes without saying that it’s been an eye-opening seven weeks for Sister C and her family. C asked that I go ahead and write something here today, something small, something true. Baby Sister – as her big brother so proudly calls her – is doing well and thriving — and with her bi-weekly speech therapy sessions already in place — might even bypass her mommy in smarts – if that is even possible. On behalf of C, her family, and our family, thanks to all of you for your love and support.

Thank you, most of all, for listening.

*

For other 5 for 5 writing on LISTENING, please click here.

I am also honored to be linking up here for Six Word Fridays.

Do you have any personal experience with Microtia/Atresia or related conditions? Have you weathered any health issues with your children? Any recent reminders to stop and just listen to life?

{Husband & Little Girl. On the walk home from the ice cream store. April 2012.}

It is not lost on me that I am now half the age he was when he died. I am 33. He was 66. It is not lost.

I think about this. About age. Is it just a number? Or is it more than that? Is it a reflection? Of who I am, where I have been, how much time I have left? Is it a reminder? Of mortality, of morality, of Mother Nature? Or is it just a number?

Mom says Dad used to sleep on the floor next to my bassinet in his back office, in that little room where he thought his thoughts and wrote his words, in that little room where he conducted an invisible orchestra and clinked glasses with Heraclitus. And I like this image of him, a burly man, a man who played hockey and football too, curled up on soft beige, his hand reaching up and through the slats, his fingers linked in mine.

Mom says Dad used to carry me on his shoulders. That he used to carry all of us girls this way. And she told me that it would worry her, that she feared he would go over on his ankle. Because he did this sometimes; hands in his pockets, jingling his change, head in the clouds, tripping, going on.

When you lose your Dad you begin to think. You think about life and you think about death. You think about the creatures in your life, those you raise, those whose hands you hold through slats and through days, those you lift to your shoulders for strolls on street of gray.

And so. At 33, I am thinking. Because I am a thinker. Because I am Dad’s daughter. Because that’s what I do. I am wondering impossible things. Am I halfway through? It’s a rough question, one I don’t like to consider or write, but I honor it because it arrives and it demands me. But as soon as it comes, I tuck it away. And I make vows. Silent ones. Sturdy ones. To live and to live well with them and for them. To take care of myself and them.

To take care.

Because age? It is not just a number. It is more than that. A reflection. A reminder.

A reality.

*

For more words on AGE, please pop over and visit Momalom’s wonderful Five for Five writers. Leave a comment for a chance to win Danielle LaPorte’s FIRE STARTER SESSIONS. To date, I have given away four of these because that’s how much I believe in Danielle and her work. Congrats to Kelly who was yesterday’s winner of this blazing new book!

How old are you? How do you feel about your age or age in general? Do you ever find yourself contemplating your own mortality? Have you lost anyone close to you? Do you feel compelled to live a healthy life to try to stick around for those who love, and need you?

One day. One day you will be bigger and you will want to know why. You will want to know why about many things, but one in particular. You will want to know why I still follow you around the streets of this city clutching my phone telling you to frolic, telling you to freeze, telling you to cheese. Why. Why do I do this? Why do I take so many pictures?

And I indulge. I imagine this moment as a big one, cinematic in its unfolding. I will sit you down on that white couch in that yellow room. The three of you will sit in the middle, long legs dangling, legs bruised from soccer and stumbling and life. Daddy will sit on one end of that couch and I will sit on the other. We will each face you, all three of you, and smile. Our smiles will match. They will be confident and strong parent smiles and you will maybe still believe that we know, that we know everything, or maybe just more than you. Or maybe you will be catching on. That we are wild with ignorance, and love.

Why. Why do I do it, why do we do it, why so many pictures of you? And I will hide behind that smile for a moment longer and pass them down, one by one, pieces of memory, bits of our braid, pictures of you. You will hold them in your good, smooth hands as I tell you, we tell you, stories of who you were when you were smaller, of the things you did, of the things you said. We will laugh and you will laugh.

Do you remember? I will ask. Do you remember how I always had that phone in my face, obscuring my eye? Do you remember how I told you to walk ahead and run and skip and hold hands? How I crouched down and climbed up, desperate to see, hungry for the perfect angle, frantic in my compulsion to capture? And you will squint and smile and look at each other and roll your eyes, your sweet blue eyes, and say maybe. Maybe you do remember. Together, you will notice things about the tiny people you were; that your hair was so light, that your eyes were so bright. That you once wore so much color, so much pattern, that there was always chocolate on your face. In unison, you will nod, heads bobbing slightly. You will admit it, that you were in fact cute. And I will nod. Daddy will nod. And we will say. You were, right?

For some reason, you will pause on one. One picture. In it, the youngest of you is missing and I will tell you that you were not yet in this world, our baby, that you were an idea, a dream, an almost. And I will say, That was my college reunion. Daddy took you for a safari adventure around campus and I slept in. And in that picture you peering over the Women’s Table. And then I will chuckle and remember. Once upon a time, Mommy danced on that table and drank champagne with her friends in the middle of the night. You will hear this and you will look at me and your minds will whirl, and you will smile.

And suddenly the answer will come. The answer to why. And I will wait for your giggles to fade and for you to listen. And I will say it.

I take pictures of you because I don’t know what else to do.

And this will strike you as cryptic and Mom-like maybe but you are sweet girls and you humor me and nod. You know I’m not finished. Not yet. I find myself in these moments, these moments with you, when I am so stuffed with something, so bursting, that I must do something. And so I reach for it. And I hold it up to my face, look through that little lens, and press. I do it to fill that space, that spinning space. I do it to see. I do it to remember.

And I have lost you now; your minds are elsewhere, on to the next thing. I know this, but I also know that one day, one day when you have creatures of your own, you will look back understand. And so. I let it go. And you let me go. You let me go to the little shelf where I have left it. And, in shaking hands, I grab it and hold it up. Snap. Crackle. Pop.

More pictures of you.

*

For other Five for Five musings on PICTURES, please click here to visit the lovely sisters at Momalom. Leave a comment here before 11pm EST for a chance to win Danielle LaPorte’s FIRE STARTER SESSIONS. Congrats to Marianna Wright for winning yesterday’s copy!

Do you take a lot of pictures? Why or why not? Do you ever picture future moments, and conversations, with those you love?

THEN: A regular day. After five. The kids are flirting with their food, not eating much. I am riding waves from the day, mulling over threadbare chapters, editing posts in my head. Someone is crying. Someone is asking for a candy. Someone is asking for a show. There are toys everywhere. A rainbow reminder of what life is now. I trip on them. I feel something. A tightening of the chest, a flurry of questions, a surge of ideas. But I can’t write now. I shouldn’t want to write now. I should pick them up and twirl them around and tickle them to the couch. I should sing something: How was your day? You are such a good girl! Mommy loves you! I sing these things. My voice is mine, but not entirely. I walk to the fridge. I swing open the door. I pull the bottle. Uncork it. I pour a glass. A big one. I drink it down. Things are better, smoother, softer, more beautiful. The whines are melodic, the toys symbolic of something gritty and grand, the chapters I didn’t finish mere details. Specks on the canvas.

NOW: A regular day. After five. The kids are flirting with their food, not eating much. I am riding waves from the day, mulling over threadbare chapters, editing posts in my head. Someone is crying. Someone is asking for a candy. Someone is asking for a show. There are toys everywhere. A rainbow reminder of what life is now. I trip on them. I feel something. A tightening of the chest, a flurry of questions, a surge of ideas. But I can’t write now. I shouldn’t want to write now. I should pick them up and twirl them around and tickle them to the couch. I should sing something: How was your day? You are such a good girl! Mommy loves you! I sing these things. I get a glass of water. I sip it. It tastes like nothing. Nothing can be delicious. I open a book and read a few words. I open my computer and write a few words. I wrangle my girls into a tiny circle and say a few words. Remember when. Imagine this. Can you believe. I am proud of you. Life is life. The voice is mine. Entirely.

WHEN: A regular day. After five… I walk to the fridge. I pour a glass of wine. I take a sip. I put it down. I read some words. I write some. I sing some. I say some. And they say words too, many of them, rising up, floating between us. Words about today, words about tomorrow, words about homework, words about heartwork, words about whatever. We set the table. Plates. Napkins. Forks. Knives. Daddy is home. We sit together. We sip. Words. Water. Wine. We are living. We are loving. We are learning. And we are talking, listening, dealing, dreaming, words weaving in that invisible and exquisite space, over the plates we pick from.

Words.

*

Words. They are this year’s wine. I sip them and swig them. I slurp them. I spill them. They make me feel, and see, and imagine, and dream. They make me alert and aware and alive. They are my dots, scattered about me, toys on the floor, connecting themselves on the canvas, tripping me up.

Words. They arrive all day long, lining up, waiting to be plucked, placed. They whisper and whirl, they tangle and twirl.

Words. They have no calories. They are free. They are me.

They do not make my head hurt. Well, they do. But in a good way. The best way. Life is life. And I will read about it and write about it and talk about it instead of escaping it.

*

Thank you all for your wonderful words yesterday. Your support and stories mean the world. The world.

*

For other Five for Five musings on WORDS, please click here to visit the lovely sisters at Momalom. I am also thrilled to be linking up with other JUST WRITE participants over at The Extraordinary Ordinary. Leave a comment here before 11pm EST for a chance to win Danielle LaPorte’s FIRE STARTER SESSIONS. Congrats to Heidi for winning yesterday’s copy!

What role do words play in your life? Do you think it is possible to replace our vices with words – thought, written, spoken? What does the 5pm hour look like in your home? Why do you drink?