So long, $hame

Most recent, and one of the first. . . photos of us.

This weekend, we stayed home. We met deadlines, ate sandwiches on fresh bread, spackled, scanned and laughed at old photos, grilled and talked. Normally, we would not choose to be "confined", rather meet friends for sushi or spirits. But truth be told, we can't afford it. We can't afford much of anything. My new career, school and some changes at our jobs make it impossible. And while we know it's not forever, it's in view for some time to come.

We made good choices (my career switch) and bad choices (charging a trip to Jamaica). We know how we got here and you know what? I'm happier now that I've been in years. Right now. Right this minute on our sofa with the sun streaming in through slatted blinds and hearing quiet in the city. Anticipating Marc's rousing and awaiting a walk on the Lake.

I refuse to be ashamed of my story. The "How I Got Here" to this place where I can't buy a cardigan when I want to. Where I buy mascara at Walgreens and not Macy's. Where I have to get creative with blips of boredom and plant seeds in every sense of the word. It's Father's Day, and I came across more photos of my dad and I when I was small; where I can see the love zipping in between us in sparks and flashes. To dig out that box from under the stairs, and spend time to thumb through old prints, scan them and watch them dance across the screen; that happened because I am broke.

The bedroom fan works because we are broke, and my husband is determined and capable. We eat healthy, al fresco, on our deck because we have to and look what happens? My skin begins to freckle and we see fireworks miles away.

I know there is kinship in this admission because I've surveyed a small sampling of my friends who are struggling. To say "no" to invitations, is to admit that maybe you made bad choices. . . but now you're making good ones. It is to accept your story and then begin to change it to where you want it to go; where you want it to end. It's a beautiful thing that lessons can be learned and reality can be shifted all because of your own will.

I love my home. I love my husband. Being broke, I'm loving me more. Resiliency is such a sexy thing.

Close Knit

In fifth grade, my friends and I had a midpoint where we would stop to warm up on walks to school. A gaggle of us walked the half mile (no, not uphill both ways, but yes, in the snow) to Mann Elementary huddling for warmth before the crossing guard bid us across the street.

Jocelyn's house was cozy. In fact, we stayed long enough to get beyond warm to hot and then went back out in the chill. It didn't feel so bad then, and school was in sight before we felt the urge to huddle again.

It's a cold morning walk still. I have several scarves and hats for different temperatures, but my favorite ensemble is one my mom made for me: an extra long, heavy duty, hand knit pink scarf with fringe and a matching skull cap. From under the winter armor, only my eyes peer forth and barely. (I confess I've walked with my eyes closed down Wabash many times, even counting the paces.)

I don't know how to knit but I'm grateful my mom does. I love my scarf that wraps around my neck three or four times before it's run out of yarn. It's my size: big. I also don't know much about cooking, other than I know what I like and want to be able to provide the same bounty of meals my mom did for my kid/s some day. I have less time to cook now than I ever have. . . and that may not change.

I don't know how to sew, nor do I know much about the best cleaning products. I've somehow lost touch with any form of domestication and I'm not happy about it. I have my mom's generation to thank for liberation, and prefer to read or work though I do fancy organizing. I'm not hard on myself about these things, but I do lament that the penchant isn't present. If it was in me, it wouldn't get lost as the genes and personalities are passed down to the next generation.

I suppose instead of knitting or darning or soup-making, I will teach my daughter how to write a resume and work with her strengths; how to ask for help and give too; how to tell the truth about who she is and hope she learns how to sit quietly better than me. Though probably not until well past puberty.

Mind you, I still haven't given up on making good soup, stews and sandwiches. But my time for learning will have to wait, hopefully not until it's too late.