A Mother's Day Card. In Blog Form.

I've been talking a lot about my Dad lately- and oh, how he totally deserves it/wishes I'd kinda stop- but there's another key player in the saga called How I Got To Be So Awesome.

My Mom.

You can just feel that I'm her favorite.

She's a cheerleader, an advocate, an advice-giver (whether you need it or not, dammit- although you do; admit it, Keely), a creator of favorite meals, a freezer-stuffer, an eradicator of laundry, and a champion Skyper. (As long as her connection isn't wonky.)

When I get a rejection letter, her favorite response is "You want me to give them a call?"

My mother also thinks that I'm the funniest writer she knows. There's no use arguing with her- she's seen a lot, baby.

She loves old movies and classic mysteries- even though she never sits down to watch them. After all of those hours spent watching our favorite series, she knows that she had a lot to do with why Nora was named after Nora Charles.

And she's also the reason my Dad will beat cancer. Because while everyone else's notes and gestures and constant stream of love keep him going through his utterly rough treatments, it's my Mom who will berate that cancer right out of his body. Because she doesn't believe in it. And she does not accept.

With this- as with so many aspects of her life- she won't give up. Ever. And those stupid people who have wronged her children/publishing houses/cancers better just step aside and realize that she's never going to stop fighting.

It must be an amazing trait to have in a wife.

And I can tell you what it's like to have in a Mom.

(Happy Mother's Day.)

10th Round Of Chemo? Say It With Embarrassing Childhood Photos.

Dad, 

Today is your tenth round of chemo. (I'd say something pithy like "only two more rounds after this to go," but I won't. Because no one likes pithy crap like that.) 

I will say, however, that you continue to rock. And you continue to be strong and nonchalant and such a GUY about this whole thing. To which I can hear you say, "I've just gotta get it done. What choice do I have?" I can also hear you say, "I'm really gonna need you to stop blogging about me, Keel."

And while I can't do that- I really just can't- I can present pictures of us like this to the world:

This is the famed Edaville Railroad picture. And I was not having it, whatever "it" was supposed to be. And yet you never flung me onto a train track or handed me to a station attendant.

I appreciate that, Dad, I really do. That's just good parenting.

And I'm gonna go ahead and hazard this theory: if a guy can handle his pointy-hatted two year old having [what was apparently] the worst tantrum of the century in a public (and Festive, Dammit!) locale, then he can for sure handle another round of chemo.

Hang in there, Dave ["Keel," you continue to say].

You can do this.

And I can guarantee that this treatment won't be as noisy as I was.

Quality Time With Children: Second Kid Edition.

This morning, Nora slept in.

Not major news in any sense (nor is it that odd of an occurrence), but right around 7:45am I noticed something. It was my younger kiddo, Susannah. And she was staring excitedly at me.

"What do you wanna do, pal?" I asked her.

She pointed at her cup. "Dink ma joo." (More excited stares.)

"And after you drink your juice?"

She shrugged and pointed at her juice and drank it some more. More very excited stares. And then I got it- she was stoked to just be with me. No preschoolers having feelings, no parents rushing around in the morning, no angry sleeves because we have to BE somewhere. She wanted to have quality time with her mother without the world ruining everything- again.

So I put aside my computer and phone and the unwashed breakfast dishes and let her take my hand. And she promptly led me on an ambling tour of the living room. We ended up in her bedroom, where she showed me how her ballerina doll did not fit into her wooden firetruck (but let's keep trying). And then she grabbed another little doll and popped out and arm and leg apiece, sadly presenting them to me ("Oh, noooo") which, despite what my sister tells me, does not make her Lenny from Of Mice And Men.

Put down the camera, Mom. I'm in real need of
some quality time, here. Maybe a hand, even.

I got to watch Zuzu just being nineteen months old; figuring out how things work, pushing the the limit of how high she could climb (with an occasional sly look over a shoulder) before I would hook an arm around her waist and pull her back to the ground, and faceplant on the floor because the rug sometimes feels so nice and- hey, look! A thumb! Let's just lie here and suck a thumb for a second, yeah? And then she climbed into my lap, looked lovingly into my eyes...and yanked a book off of her shelf.

"Dis?"

"Sure."

We read that one. And when she grabbed a second, we read that one, too. And a third, a fourth, a fifth, and then...she told me I had a nose. And a mouth. Poke poke poke.

"Ma joo?"

"Sure."

So we held hands and walked back into the kitchen for one more sip of juice, before embarking on the rest of the morning. Which was gonna be just awesome.

Zu was one hundred percent sure of that.

Staying Mindful [Is Impossible].

I work so hard at mindfulness. At remaining fully present. And not mentally jumping ahead to whatever comes next/tomorrow/down the road/I wonder what flights look like for the winter?

I work really hard at this during my Pilates class because a) mindfulness is a major tenet of practicing Pilates, b) it's such a luxury for me to even be able to sneak away at 6pm on a Wednesday evening, c) Good Lord, if I can manage to find forty-five minutes here then why is our storage area such a mess, and d) this is so expensive, I should really be doing better at staying present.

It's easy to stay present when you've got Tinkerbell on your lap.

Last night was no exception. As I planked and propped and curled, here was my thought process:

-It's so hot, is it going to rain tonight? I hope I remember to close the windows in three hours.
-Checkup for me. Someone's gonna need to watch the girls. Could the girls come with me? Eh.
-I hope the reviews for the show are good. I hope the reviews for the show are good. I hope-
-Conference Sunday. Meeting Thursday. All I own are sweatpants.
-I would give my right arm to watch a marathon of Psych.
-What if my play gets skewered? I will have to gouge out my eyes.
-Nora's cough sounds gross. I'll give it another day.
-I hate social media promotion. I just won't do it anymore. Awesome!
-Nine posts due within two weeks. No, sure. That's totally fine.
-I would give my right arm for some nachos.
-I am so tired and my arms huuuurt.
-P.J. starts rehearsals soon. I have zero idea what nights those are. I am the worst.
-If the show gets rotten reviews, I will leave town and set my car on fire.

And so on. A totally awesome and completely present workout. (And I'm embarrassed to admit, it's a mammoth improvement from last week's session. I didn't even think once about the girls' summer wardrobes or the piles of laundry remaining from our mid-April California trip or how much PlayDoh Susannah consumed that morning. Baby steps.)

But hey- here's one thing I can [kinda] check off the ol' To Worry About list! This review for my show. And while I'm sure they won't all be this glowing, this one will keep me cozy for some time to come.

At least it'll keep me from setting my car on fire.