PMS~ listen up men. There is a gift in it for you!

It's a scene out of psycho if you cross us, or maybe we just can't stop crying and we have no idea why. Either way, we hate it more than you do, trust me! The best advise I can give any man who wants to survive the '10 days of hell' each month; give us wine, chocolate, back rubs and lots of love and understanding, even when you have no clue what's up with our crazy behavior. Here is your one time to lie your sweet hearts out." Honey, do you think I've gained weight?" Don't run, don't pause, even for a nano-second, you look her square in the eye, hold her close, and tell her she's never looked sexier or more beautiful as you stroke her cheek and smile softly.
After all my advise, if you really listen, you may even get the best sex of your life and satisfy her beyond your wildest dreams. How's that for motivation. It has been documented, proven, that we woman are at our most sexually primed time during the week before and during, what I like to refer to as 'shark week'.
So, step one, we are irrational and most of us know it and feel quite embarrassed by this crazy imbalance that we have absolutely NO control over. We need chocolate, salt, carbs, wine, chic flicks, physical contact.But this is paramount, we need non-selfish physical contact. Foot rubs, back, rubs, stroking our hair at night in bed, running us a bath without looking at our bodies with the horny lust of a 16 year-old who just saw a girls boobs for the first time. Offer to wash our back and ask us to tell you about our day, and REALLY listen.
This is key. I know it is difficult at times, I know, but the listening part we are keenly aware of. We woman have a super-power of knowing if we are being listened to, and asking questions during the listening session is a huge mistake. Let me reemphasize...HUGE mistake. The best thing to offer is verbal empathy. Example; That must feel awful honey,This is just so hard on you, I am going to take care of you sweetie, I want to give you a back rub when we get you out of this bath, Lets go out to dinner and get a big piece of chocolate cake before we order dinner. Get the idea? We are as over- tired and emotional as a five year-old after a day at an amusement park, and this makes trying to sooth us a finesse of sorts. Whatever you do, never utter the phrases; honey, just relax, just calm down, it's no big deal, thank God I'm not a chic, and the worst, the one that brings out the knife-slashing, eyes of death, "You're acting crazy." Don't do it, even if you couldn't be more right. No good can come from this...no, no good indeed.
Okay, so I mentioned sex on the menu. Well, I have found that after the bath and back rub, when my man cuddles up with me, no TV on, caressing my face, tucking my hair softly behind my ear and saying beautiful romantic words about how much he loves me and how amazing I am, etc. We begin to kiss and before we know it, the warmth and understanding I am offered, and the side of him that is in touch with his feminine side, now has me fully and passionately wanting him.Poof! The easy words, the giving of love and listening, and the sharing of junk food has all paid off for both of you.

The week has passed, you've had more sex and hotter sex than you did the two weeks prior, and most of all, you've now mastered the art of surviving 'shark week'. Yep, those poor suckers at work will stagger in, baggy-eyed, cranky, pulling out what little hair they may have left, and working late, all to avoid the dreaded crazy demon that has temporarily inhabited their wife. All the while, they begin to notice, you never seem to come in with a look of bewilderment and deflation. Take pity as you puff up your chest with pride, because you, are in-the-know, and you are the master of your domain. Yes, you are sexually satisfied and your wife is suddenly head-over-heels in love with you. You are the super man of all men. I know, you want to tear off that  collared shirt to reveal the capital S on your chest, but hold back, you know it's there!
Congratulations! We are no mystery, really...You have now been given the map, do not look for a detour after a few amazing months of success, an over confident sense of power may trick you, the ego hopes it will. But we will sniff it out, one single drop of blood (bull-shit) like a shark, from a hundred miles away, your toast. Don't do it, you've seen Fatal Attraction and you don't want Glenn Close appearing in your kitchen, standing beside a large pot of  boiling stew..."where's the rabbit you wonder in silent fear. Dam it, why did I detour?

So I wish you the best of luck. Oh, and you will come to a place if you are a really truly good husband, that you won't even dread this time of the month. You might just welcome it as a time for fantastic sex with the girl you fell in love with.
...and so doth endeth the lessson.

and the road twists and bends and turns....

                                           ...and everywhere I see us.
I saw us today in the sun, as we walked along the roadside, our sweet girl a few feet ahead of us. I saw us in each room we chose a paint color for, and in the new french doors we uncovered behind some hidden curtains. I saw us in the old bathroom cabinet that we'll rip down together and replace with my Anthropologie cobalt mirror. I saw us in your mahogany dresser, and in the wind chimes, in the empty patch of earth begging for our garden, and I saw us as we all cuddled in giggles on the bed at twilight, with everything dancing and singing around us, calling of home and love. I saw your sweet smile lift into joy and a peace wash over your heart. I saw you in me today, and me in you...and I drove home smiling the whole way. We are six now, and oh, but how we do so love the number 6. How lucky are we...how very lucky

A Safe Place ~ ...in the garden.

    Present day 1997

I sat and watched my father for hours as he worked on our roof with my husband, all too eager to grab whatever tool they might need or frequent the kitchen for more bottles of water to keep them going. Was I ten again? I laughed at myself in the kitchen on my third trip to deliver sustenance to my two favorite men, shaking my head at what seemed so childish. Oh, I have really lost it! I am a 26-year-old married woman and mother of three, and to this day, I am still my father’s little girl. Being this happy when my dad is near even makes my husband smile and shake his head in amusement.

 "Hey Kiddo", my hubby mimics my dad while winking at him, do you think you might make some dinner soon?" 

I shot back an evil eye as I put my hands on my hips and smiled, as if to say ”Really?”

 "Should I push him off the roof now or later, Katie-pie?" my father chides.

"Later, maybe…just be careful up there and I’ll call you in when dinner is ready."

I hear my father’s laughter as I make my way around the house, and I can do nothing but smile and love him a bit more every day.

I decided to gather up my mom and the kids in the garden. My mother is tending to my tomatoes, the size of grapefruit with a taste that bursts into your mouth, with warmth and sweetness that causes you to close your eyes and smile.

My mother is in her J.Jill jeans, Dad’s sweatshirt, and her Docksiders from the early 80's. She looks adorable. She has a scarf pulling back her blonde hair, reminiscent of Grace Kelly. She has next-to-no makeup on, except for her Revlon Naked Pink lipstick, which she has worn forever. I don't know what she'll do if they ever discontinue that color. I remember taking sips of her Tab when I was a kid and seeing her lipstick marks on the lip of the can. It had a strong perfumey taste, and oddly, despite my hating the combination of lipstick and soda, I always took a sip. Maybe it was the fact that we weren’t ever allowed more than a taste of any soda, coffee, wine, or beer which made that one sip something you’d grab, even if you really could have cared less. You just weren’t going to miss the chance to have what the grownups had.

She smells of Chanel and looks as beautiful today as she did in her wedding album, an album I had thumbed through so often, as a kind of bedtime story when I was little. White tents filled with twinkle lights, candles, and fancy tables covered in white linens in Grand mom’s back yard overlooking the ocean. It was magical and it was what I dreamed my wedding day would be like when I grew up. 

 She has been stable for almost eleven years, not counting the year we all fell apart from losing Sam. We are all so thankful for her recovery and proud of her strength. Since then she has remained on her medicine and is still seeing her psychiatrist monthly.

I am particularly proud of my father for never walking away or giving up on her through those years and all of the craziness they carried, for staying as constant as a rock for us, especially when we needed his courage the most. Unlike most of my other friends’ parents who had split up, mine were still quite happily together. I remember one conversation in particular, when I asked my father if he ever thought about leaving her and taking us with him.

“It was never an option Kate. I loved your mother more than life and I knew one day she'd come back to me, back to us, and she did." This conversation played in my head as I moved towards my garden.

Now she was a dreamy grandmother who refused to be called grandma, which was for "old people!" she said…and so she was Mom-mom and that suited us all just fine.

My little love beans are busy moving rocks and trying to keep on the oversized gardening gloves that Mom-mom has given them. They feel like big helpers and have such a seriously delightful glee about them. Will, named after my father, is six, and he loves everything about nature and being busy. Gillian, named after my grandmother, is four-and-a-half and the spitting image of me; she is all too eager to please and is always humming when she is busy with a project. She has this adorable habit of chewing on her tongue when in concentrating deeply. It just kills me. And Peter; Peter is three years old. He is our little Buddha, always taking in everything around him with such joy that it causes one to stop and watch with contagious wonder. They have melted my heart and I love every minute of being their mom.

"Mom, do you and Dad want to stay for dinner, or do you think Dad might get too tired?" Dad had a fainting spell a few weeks ago that ended up being nothing more than a sugar crash, but it scared the hell out of me nonetheless.

"Stop worrying about him Kate, he's fit as a fiddle. Dinner would be wonderful. What can I do to help?"

"Not a thing Mom, just come on in and have some tea while I get the kids in the bath."

"Come on lovies!" My mother reaches out to Will to pull her up as she moans a bit from her achy back.

"Oh boy Willow, your Mom-mom is stiff." Will pats the dirt off the back of her jeans and smiles. “

 Gillian bops over in her tutu and frog boots, wiggles her index finger in a ‘come here’ motion, then takes each of her sweet cherub hands and cradles my mother’s cheeks. She looks my mother seriously in the face and whispers closely, “You’re not old Mom-mom, you just get extra crinkly when you smile, don’t worry.” Gilly then mimics what she thinks it looks like. I laugh as my mother kisses her and says, “Well thank you, dear. I feel so much better now that you told me.”

"What’s ‘sniff’?” says Peter, as he follows the erratic flight of a nearby butterfly.

We all chuckle as I wrap him up in my arms and kiss under his sweet full cheeks. I linger there and inhale his sweet smell of dirt, basil, and baby. I catch a glance of my mother placing her hand over her heart, as she knows exactly how much my heart is swelling. We smile at one another and all move our way to the back door, an old wooden door that creaks as you open it and slams shut when you let it go. I swear I smile every time I hear it.

when all you can do is cry...

....some days, just when you thought you'd found a way through, a better way, maybe even a beautiful gift. Sometimes one word can undo that peaceful feeling and bottom you out. When the little girl that has been trying so hard to be brave, just has to come out and pout, pulling back the big cry, until you just can't pull it back one second longer and you cry, until the sobs finally break with a giant yawn and a soft pillow to fall asleep into. Then you wash the mascara out the next day and start over, hoping things will get fixed. Hoping that he'll fix them...

will it hurt?...

Well I remember that he was handsome, cute at first, even plain, and later, remarkably handsome. He had a tattoo that was just peeking out from his shirt collar and I wasn’t one for tattoos, but it didn’t bother me. That’s what stands out the most about our first meeting… It didn’t bother me. Maybe it was because he was captivating on some unconscious level that left me open and without judgment. I did ask if he’d show me, wow only two minutes into meeting this stranger at a diner and I’m asking him about his tattoo, (I’m bold that way) saying it looks very yogic, though all I can see is a lick of fire shooting out through his sable chest hair. He smiled a very shy but confident smile and unbuttoned three buttons slowly and showed me. Yup, it was Hindu, painting the five elements in very subtle and beautiful colors and at the center of his chest was a purple lotus flower all open and vulnerable. Maybe that is when he had me, maybe that is when I should have left. Open and vulnerable, I could relate to that. “will it hurt?...” a young girls voice whispers to me, but I push her away. Somewhere deep within I could see the darkness at the end and even tried to warn my older self.

 I almost don’t want to mention the next part, but it is the most interesting part of our meeting. I had a guru at the time and as I bantered the way I tend to banter, I mentioned that I taught yoga and that his tattoo reminded me of my guru. She was Hindu and I....he cut in, “Your guru?...” his eyebrows lifting in a hopeful and curious way. “Yeah I know, sounds crazy, a Main Line mom with a guru. Her name is Gurumayi Chidvilasananda, I’ve been studying meditation and I found her through a healer friend of mine… wow, it is possible for me to sound even flakier.” He stared at me as if I had to be kidding. “She’s my guru too, in fact. I’m leaving in six weeks to live at the Ashram and do philanthropic work for Prasad.” He beamed. Well, you can imagine the conversation at that point. A few days later we had our first date which didn’t end until sunrise and me crawling into my bed and offering him a guest bed. Really.

 A week later we were living together, and five weeks after that, he left for the Ashram with both of us in tears; him coming home on Thursday nights only to leave at 5 a.m. Monday mornings. The passion was non-stop and the love letters were several and daily since that first night in the diner. Yes, I got love letters while he was living with me. He left me love notes everywhere and we made love several times a day and all night long. At this point I was toast. I’ll admit in the beginning I wasn’t sure this was going to work. Maybe he needed me too much or maybe I was growing away from the guru stuff as he was just headed more deeply into it. Either way, we were at a turning point and I couldn’t bear his coming and going every week anymore, mostly his going. We agreed that he would leave Prasad August 1^st and come home to begin teaching at La Salle again and live with me. My Birthday is August 6^th, and on that day he took the kids and I to Valley Green and proposed on bended knee. I was tingling, happy beyond all of my sad years of longing for this kind of love to come into my life again, and I was the girl that those big brown eyes were staring into and so in love with. By Christmas he was gone.

It took me three years to get over him….three very rough, tear- filled, Ativan- filled years. What happened…does it matter? Not really. He was two years younger, I had 3 kids and he wasn’t ready for real life beyond young love…that and some more. So a few days before Christmas, he packed up, left us and moved into an apartment in Manayunk. I wish I could tell you I didn’t call and cry, begging him to come home, but I did. I hung on for fixes like some crazed love junky for over a year, until I begged God to take him far away from me because I wasn’t strong enough to save myself. He had more than broken my heart, it felt as if he’d actually taken it from me, leaving me some hollow achy version of my heart, a void, an amputation of soul, and I was willing to do anything to have him love me again. Yes, I had become that girl. I’d never been her before, but I knew what she looked like and I was now her. God finally took him to Maui and freed me. The withdrawal was an abyss of his smell, taste, touch and countless nights crying in the dark, wondering at what precise moment he stopped loving me, when he treated me as if I had meant less than a stranger to him. When all of the words had no meaning and all of the sacredness now mocked me.

I have been in love, deep amazing passionate love, six times in my life since I was 17. I cherish all that I have lived through and all that I have savored. Do I wish I’d never met him? I can’t say. I’ve stopped asking that question. I am in love now… he is a poet and a father; he is wonderful, beautiful, smart, sexy and filled with a childlike honesty about life that intrigues me endlessly. I don’t know if we’ll marry, that is another story, marriage, still I wonder as he and I fall asleep in each other’s arms, limbs wrapped around one another….his smell pressed into my soul already, his taste and warmth, all a part of me now. Will he one day be another memory…I pray not. Love does not last evidently, not all love anyway. I’ve held friends as they’ve rocked in pain of such great proportion over a lost lover and I’ve had to tell them what I’ve come to know, not something one can even fathom at that moment… “You will get over him one day, I whisper gently, you will be happy again, I promise.” Time wounds all heals as far as love goes and therein lies the risk… ah, but what a delicious ride.

A Safe Place~ Intro to my book

A Safe Place

Home.... a word that means so many things. Sometimes I feel it was my unquenchable thirst to find home that kept, that keeps me going. To feel safe, warm, loved, valued, needed and fiercely protected. There are certain things that bring with them a deep peace at the mere mention; crisp white sheets flapping in the wind on a clothesline, the rolling drum of the clothes dryer and the hiss of steam from an iron, butterflies floating on a gentle breeze, the moon and stars spilling light on my garden, wind chimes gently singing, an old wooden screen door that creeks as you open it and slams shut as you let it go! Glass jars of jam - still warm. Wind, the kind that comes out of nowhere just before a storm, revealing the underbelly of the leaves. The sound of our dog dragging her bowl across the kitchen floor with euphoric, anxious licks and coffee percolating, sending steamy kisses throughout the house. My babies giggling at bath time, the whooshing of water as it first takes flight from the summer hose line with gurgles and kicks. Fireworks on the 4th of July and fireflies that light up your backyard, popping out from the soft green grass on sweet summer nights. I love the symphony of cicadas as I fall off to sleep and the cool soil from my garden as it says hello to another day. And mostly, the sounds of my children as they stir around the house, not knowing that I'm listening. I hear them chat to each other and tell jokes and share their day with one another. I love the hopeful lift in my son's lip as he hands me a dead butterfly and says 'Mommy, can you fix it?"... But the most precious of these is the sound of my home tonight. All the people I love most, asleep, safe under this roof, in this home that we have built together. My children and husband all have a sweet sort of cub snore. I hear it when I lay close in bed every night beside him, and with every delicious nap I take with my babies, or upon gazing at them in their beds and cribs at night. Watching their stomachs rise and fall… rise and fall, lips quivering and fingers flinching. The faint sounds of the doves that have settled under our soffits and my grandfather clock that we found in an antique shop in New England. If the Universe has a sound for peace, this is its sound for me. This will forever now be its sound for me. And always in the background Sam will be in full sway on our tree tire swing, dusty black converse dangling, laughing back at me, calling me to play from wherever he is now.