Bob Newhart Got it Right

Endings are hard. Just ask the writers of Saturday Night Live. Sometimes they end a sketch well, but those are usually in the first half hour. Because endings are hard. That's why there are two too many seasons of The Office, the "see everything turned out alright" ending of Broadcast News, and the coda at the end of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Bob Newhart got it right, but he is one of the few. Because endings are hard. The finality of letting go is so unknown.

I often do not know my ending when I begin. I learned from improv that if I pay attention, trust my instincts and build on what is in front of me, the ending will present itself. I look at writing as a process of discovery; a continuing suspenseful delicious unveiling of the truth. Every blog post I have written over the last five years has been a product of this search for this often ridiculous and surprising truth. I promised to always tell you the truth, and it has been the easiest and most rewarding act of my life thus far. Easy because of the courage I find in words, and rewarding because the discovery behind the meaning each post's unique collection of words grants helps me breathe deeper, walk steadier and see clearer than I did before.

And now the ending is presenting itself.

There is no drama. There is no single reason. There is no big news. I am not done parenting, not by a long shot. And I am still making plenty of mistakes and figuring it out as I go along. It simply seems that life, circumstance and plain old instinct is leading me to figure it out in different ways.

I thank you for reading, for sharing, for commenting. My ongoing hopes are that we do not feel alone in our doubts, that we embrace our beautiful flaws and recognize their strength, and we continue to laugh at ourselves because we need to wear our imperfections like badges of honor. Let your loved ones see you fail and not give up, so that they feel comfortable doing the same. Because without failure, we lose innovation.

This Blog began five years ago with a list; a letter to my kids about what I really wanted for Mother's Day. So, since Mother's Day is right around the corner...

What I really want to give myself for Mother's Day

1. I want to forgive myself.
2. I want to remember I have not made my last mistake.
3. I want to keep laughing at myself.
4. I want to take the non-mom part of me out for a drink and see what she's all about.
5. And I wouldn't mind an unnecessary pair of shoes.

Thank you all.

Eagles & Aristotle

We are not diehard Eagles fans. We are Eagles fans, but there is nothing extraordinary about our fandom. But we needed them to win the Super Bowl. We didn't know it, but we needed it.

For those of you who read my last post, other shoes keep dropping. Big Ass Steel Toed Boots keep dropping. For those of you who haven't, go ahead and read it. We'll wait.

Caught up? K.

So Big-Ass shoes have continued to drop at a steady rate, and we are all a little on edge here. We are four exposed nerves walking around taking turns freaking out and eating thin mints like M&M's. And when you operate at this level of "What the Fuck is Next" for an extended period of time, every ripple becomes Euripidean in scope. Forgetting milk at the grocery store, or getting stuck behind a slow driver or not being able to find the right socks to boost your mood are fate-questioning obstacles which can be added to the growing mountain of evidence supporting the universe's conspiracy against you. As a result, imperceptible bumps in the road become metaphors for a perceived narrative that can only lead to ends that equal or surpass those of Cleopatra, Hamlet and Willy Loman combined.

And then along come the Eagles. Carson Wentz leads them to Super Bowl dreams until a season ending injury stops them just short. No way can the back up quarter back fill his shoes. Unless of course it is Nick Foles. I was banned from watching the NFC championship because as soon as I walked in the room, the Vikings scored. The more evolved of you will snicker at my sense of importance, thinking that I couldn't possibly hold sway over the results of a game not even remotely related to me. And to all of you I say-Big Ass Steel Toed Boots. I was not taking any chances, so I left the room.

I contemplated doing the same for the Super Bowl, but my gut told me otherwise. So I sat. and played it cool and knitted for most of the game. Husband and Son #1 have always been loud football watchers. Son #2 and I tend to be more reserved, though Son #2 let fly a few choice words for the refs when he felt an injustice had been done. For most of the game, however, we all played out appointed roles, until the last 2 minutes. I paced by the coat closet, Son #1 and Husband tested the volume of their voices and Son #2 was pretty close to throwing up. Then Brady's final pass was blocked. The Eagles won. And the Carpenters had a catharsis that would have made Aristotle proud.

Husband and Son #1 danced and screamed, I fell to the floor and let loose a primal yolp, and Son #2 ran outside in his bare feet and paraded up and down our sidewalk chanting a triumphant WOO-HOO! We didn't realize how much we needed a win. We didn't realize how much we needed to feel happy. We didn't realize how much we needed to become reacquainted with hope.

Our particular catharsis lacks subtlety and nuance and art, but it is real and restorative, if only for a few days. And when I went to Dick's Sporting Goods the next day and overpaid for Super Bowl shirts and hats, I didn't bat an eye, because those are our talismen; they are the armor we don in what seems like our version of Agincourt. I still believe in Hope, but I stopped trusting it for awhile. I'm still scared of it, of the vulnerability it demands, but I'm more scared of living without it.

So, I will endeavor to dress my soul like Jason Kelce and start each day with a resounding Hell Yeah, because no matter the outcome, despite the Big Ass Steel Toed Boots out there, it really is the only way to live.

E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES!