Falling apart

That mailbox? The one attached to the post via electrical tape?

That's my mailbox.

This long, cold, snowy winter sucker punched it. Seems a snow plow took it out while scraping our road. The mail carrier was kind enough to hand deliver our mail to the front door and inform us of the assault. My husband fished the battered box out of a snowy ditch.

It was cold. It was icy. Hand delivery of our bills, my Entertainment Weekly and the occasional American Girl catalog was a one-time thing (side note: no one - no one - in this house is in the market for American Girl dolls and yet we have received that catalog for more than 10 years, despite repeated unsubscribes).

So hubs did what any middle class, educated man would do in front of his suburban home: he got a roll of tape and stuck that dented beast back on the post with a promise to fix it in the spring thaw.

It's not embarrassing at all.

[it's possible I am lying]

This?

Now this embarrassed me.

You see, our 15-year-old washer would thump and jiggle like a tiny nightclub each time the load was unbalanced - which was every. single. time. we ran it. Eventually, the thumping shook the front panel loose, adding a percussive element as it moved away from its set placement, much a like Stevie Nicks twirling on stage with a tambourine.

Hubs would balance the feet, tighten the panel ... until the next load. Eventually, it would rattle and shake into a boot scooting line dance of sorts.

Then one day, it made like a stripper on dollar beer night and dropped the front panel completely.

You might say, "Who cares? It's just the laundry room. You're the only ones who will see it."

Naturally, this happened the week we had a guest who needed to use our laundry facilities. Our dirty shame (literally dirty - the inside of a 15-year-old washer is nasty) was not hidden; it had a witness. And I was embarrassed by it.

My husband is a handy guy. He can fix stuff. He's good at it and I am not going to lie: I dig this quality in a man. It's downright sexy. He fought this machine for more than a week and let me tell you: there was some unusually foul language flying about from my normally sweet, polite guy. I thought it might best him. I had duct tape anxiety, knowing he might choose to tape it shut or worse yet, just leave it open. Buying a new washer is not an option financially.

But he conquered it. Tape free. Our shame concealed ... at least until the next unbalanced load.

Life is like that. Sometimes it seems our world is falling apart physically, mentally, spiritually, literally. We get knocked down, rattled loose. We swear, we fight to keep it together, to hold on and stay useful. We peel back the layers of fear, anxiety, embarrassment. Sometimes we conquer it, and sometimes we need to patch ourselves together a little while longer and hope for a better day; a better way.

"Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try one more time." - Thomas Edison

  

Becoming Mom

Last week my son turned 15.

It was a low-key birthday for him. He had school all day and indoor percussion group rehearsal all evening. He had homework. His dinner was one of time-constrained convenience. His main birthday gift (sweet vintage hi-hat and ride cymbals for his drumset!) arrived a couple of days afterward.

Even though there wasn't even a proper cake in this house, I whipped up a batch of chocolate chip brownies, per his request. The three of us grabbed a few minutes to light a candle, sing and nosh before the day was over.

Though it doesn't sound like all that much fun, he managed to carve out a great day. After all, it was his day. Like all teens, he digs the mystique of getting older. Family and friends wished him well and paid attention to him for that very reason. Cards arrived via post, many included a little something special in the form of gift cards or cash - both his favorites right now. It was a special day for him.

That day last week was not about me  - my own birthday is just a couple of weeks away - and yet, I mark the day as significant.

It's the anniversary of the most important day of my life.

As much as I love my husband - and I truly do - on that day 15 years ago, I was introduced to love as I'd never known it. It's the kind of attachment born of sacrifice, blood, pain and fear. I will spare you the details of my delivery day, but I will say that it was medically complicated for me and took a rapid turn toward serious just after my son's arrival. The quick actions of the medical staff and my doctor in those moments ensured that I am sitting here at this keyboard today and I am forever grateful for that.

But there would be no more pregnancies or deliveries; no more children in this house. This was enough.

Giving birth to that boy 15 years ago didn't automatically give me purpose or grant me patience or make me wiser. It did, however, set me on the path to those things with a less-than-self-serving motivation I hadn't previously known.

[Aside: I have not yet arrived at those destinations]

I was forever changed for the better 15 years ago.

Of course, I was not the only one changed that day. My husband found the role he was meant to play as hands-on partner and loving dad. I never had a loving father figure in my life and one of my greatest joys has been to bear witness to the great relationship and friendship between the two people I love most.

My husband never forgets what the day means for me. Every year on our son's birthday, he gives me a small bouquet of flowers.

Men: give your wives flowers on your children's birthdays. And teach your sons to do this for their mothers and, eventually, their own wives.

But like I said, the day was not about me. It came and went in a blink, much like the years themselves. The baby born that day is now a teen. The earliest days of his life are ones he will never remember.

And they are the days I will never forget.