The Rainbow Connection.

“There’s a thunderstorm inside me. But sometimes it’s only raining.”

Outside, the rain has been falling all day. Dark and gloomy, we’ve stayed happily inside and done what families do on lazy, rainy, chilly Sundays.

But inside our home it has been falling for years. The raindrops are fewer and farther between, falling less like shards of glass and more like snowflakes that vanish at the first touch of warmth. But tonight, like so many nights since autumn fell, her eyes have grown cold and stormy as night draws close.

Of all the gifts we gave her, it is her eyes that I cherish most.

The color of hazelnuts ripening, they sparkle and grow warm with laughter. They glint sharply with the fiery nature that is both inspiring and infuriating. And like quicksand, you sink slowly and helplessly into them when they are dark with sadness. Like windows to her soul they reveal the damage left after the storm, the raw edges that have healed and those wounds still open and weeping.

Listening to the sound of the rain hitting the pane, I watch her little hands angrily rub away the tears that have broken free. She tells me about the color of her heart when sadness shuts it down and the color when it is not shut down. She tells me about the blackness inside, and the rain that falls, and of all the sadness that won’t go away. She tells me that it isn’t fair that her Daddy died, and that it isn’t fair that it is for me alone to keep them safe, and she wonders who will take care of me and keep me safe.

Tonight the thunderstorm has broken free.

“Sweetheart, I know about the thunderstorm and the rain. It’s inside me, too. And every time the storm gets really bad and it feels like it will never stop raining, I try really hard to remember one thing.”

“What’s that?”

Brushing back the gently curling hair that is my gift to her, I fight a smile as she reaches to do the same for me.

“That there’s always a rainbow after the rain. Even when we can’t see it, it’s there. And someday it won’t rain as much, and the thunderstorm will go away. And when that happens, that’s when you’ll see your rainbow.”

“What if it doesn’t have lots of colors in it?”

“It’s your rainbow – it can have as many colors as you want.”

How to Make Lemonade.

“Mom, how do you make lemonade?”

Anyone who knows me, knows that asking me for culinary or libation guidance is a little bit like trying to sell a swimming pool to an Eskimo. But he is earnest and I am caught off guard. Not because I can’t find my way around Google, but because he isn’t the first to mention lemonade this week.

The other came in the lines of an email from a friend I would not have met had it not been for my husband’s unauthorized departure. In an ironic twist that fate inflicts all too easily, we had read about her loss only weeks before and standing in that kitchen I had felt more connected to this woman I did not know than to any other spouse that had been left behind before. They were young and happy, like we were, with their whole lives ahead of them. They had two children, one boy and one girl, of similar ages to our own. He shared the same calling as my husband. Looking at my husband I told him I could not imagine how she felt at that very moment. And then two weeks later, I knew.

From one suddenly left behind to another. Making lemonade, right?

As a child I loved lemonade, a taste that stayed through my teenage years and well into adulthood. Sweet and sour shaken together with a dash of youth and summertime. But lemonade is as individual as the person. It’s not the ingredients that tempt the palate – it’s the art of making lemonade that does.

In the early years of our marriage, we harvested hundreds of lemons from the yard each year. We froze the juice and savored lemon tarts and moist meringues. We soaked sliced lemons in pitchers of crystal water. We made lemonade.

And then I made my own.

“Sweetheart, I’m not exactly sure. But, we’ll learn together.”

You Had a Good Look.

Watching him swagger through the gate, his little sister half walking, half running to keep up, the image library flips to that very first “first” when the start of school wasn’t just the start of school. It was the start of something new for all of us.

A few short months after his father’s death came his all-important fifth birthday, a moment he had been planning since the day after his fourth. Then the first “after it happened” summer vacation. And then the start of kindergarten, a milestone that children mark in time and another moment when I would stand alone flanked by pairs.

The night before his very first day, we carefully chose the clothes and laid them atop unscuffed shoes. Folders and pencil crayons inside a new backpack and a lunchbox waiting in the fridge. Tucking him into bed, he looked up at me and asked for one thing.

“Mom, I really want a mayo sandwich for lunch on my first day.”

Mother Hubbard’s cupboard was nearly bare and a generous amount of peanut butter and jelly was already holding the last two pieces of bread together. A deal was struck. While he was at school, I would get the necessary supplies. I had a 30-minute window between conference calls. Five minutes there, five minutes back, and 20 minutes to get in and out.

Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

We measure loss in tears, cards and passing days, but death’s insidious companion wraps its serpentine fingers around you until you become an empty shell, your senses obliterated and your vision cloudy. Like a medical-induced coma, we move numbingly through each day until the raw edges stop bleeding. I don’t remember the details of the first days, weeks and months. I find messages sent that I don’t remember, pictures taken of days that are cloudy and vague. Featureless faces crowd my memory.

Like the one standing between me and that deli sandwich.

“You had a good look and so I thought I would take a chance. I see that you are not wearing a ring and I thought perhaps you are available and so I thought I would take a chance.”

Tick tock. My tongue went silent while his gained momentum. While he lauded my attributes and took a chance, I seethed inside, angry at the man who should have been with me at the gate that morning. The man who loved the way I looked on a sleepy Sunday morning as much as he admired me in 3.5-inch peep toes. The man who had laughingly promised I would never have to date again. On that first day I realized that was no longer blissfully oblivious.

"You had a good look and you weren’t wearing a ring so I thought I would take a chance. But now I am wondering if perhaps you are taken?”

Staring up at him, my palms gripping the handrail of the cart, I dipped my toe in the dating pool.

“Um, my husband just died?”

And with that I snatched my toe out of the water and watched him back away, arms upraised as though I had just whispered the words “syphilis” or “leprosy” and made a mental note to see if I know a lifeguard. Because this is going to be long and painful and I clearly don’t know how to swim.  

Don't Rock the Boat.

Row, row, row your boat,

Gently down the stream.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,

Life is but a dream.

For his entire existence, my son has been fueled by an engine that spends its time in one of two gears – stop or go. And stop only seems to happen at bedtime. Otherwise, it is go, go, go. 

I’ve actually thought about whether or not a seatbelt could be installed to keep him upright and forward at the dinner table. While my daughter cozies up for movie night with her beloved bunny, he migrates from sprawling to sitting to the fridge to the bathroom to the left side and to the right side. He even spends time sitting on the back of the couch. He’ll spend hours playing with his Lego, but only after I’ve spent 30 minutes arguing with him about why he should. He likes the quick leapfrogging of checkers and not the methodical plodding of chess. He prefers the speed and physical engagement of hockey and football to the waiting game that is baseball. He loves to read, but only because he has my knack for efficiently and effectively devouring words on a page. He does not like to wait and his impatience can be relentless. 

Note: In an ironic twist of fate, I now know how my husband felt when I asked him to take the garbage out over and over and over. In my defense, he would have complained less about me overfilling it if I had had to ask less for him to empty it.

But for the past few weeks my son’s energy has fueled his anger and frustration and we have argued about everything from what he says to what he does. So, when my son decided that he would be Captain Sparrow to my Mr. Gibbs I double checked the buckles on my life jacket, debated the merits of arming him with a paddle and clarified the rules.

Don’t turn around. Don’t drop the paddle. Don’t rock the boat.

But the energetic boy who likes to remind me that “we’re active kids, Mom” discovered a third gear in the bow of that canoe. As we pushed back from shore the angry fire he had stoked and that fueled my own was doused and we both slowed down. For hours we glided between lush canyon walls, talking about everything and nothing while our paddles moved in unison.

After weeks of being at odds, we found common ground on the water.

Itsy Bitsy, Teeny Weeny.

Three steps and 30 feet of searing hot tile. It might as well be 30 miles in three minutes.

This was not part of today’s itinerary. We were supposed to see our movie, while they went to theirs. But moments after they walked out the door, my almost-six-but-feels-like-sixteen daughter decided that she simply wanted to spend an afternoon in the pool. And now I am faced with getting from here – in the pool – to there – the lounge chair where I left my towel – unseen and undamaged.

The odds don’t look good.

My son lives for Fridays, his weekly shot of testosterone-fueled antics, adventures and attitudes delivered by a man as irritating as he is endearing. A complete stranger a year ago, he entered our lives to soothe a little boy’s damaged heart. He shared my husband’s profession, but he did not know him nor did he know or have an obligation to the family left behind. He simply heard of a little boy in need and responded to the call. But as they often do, he went above and beyond the call of duty becoming my daughter’s champion as well. And in bringing their laughter back, he brought back my own. It is often said that the measure of a man comes not in what he says, but what he does. By any measure, he is a wonderful man.

Who does not need to see me in my bikini.

It’s not that I look bad – I can hold my own poolside. But it’s not easy to keep eye contact while wearing a foot of lycra cut in tiny triangles pieced together with string that is always just a little too loose to guarantee that everything will stay where you put it in the first place. And while I love my children, I do not love what they have done to the elasticity of my midriff.

For 15 minutes I have watched him toss, flip and dive alongside my two little sea urchins. Watching them is like watching the kaleidoscope of sunlight dance on the water. They sink below the surface, three bodies moving silently like sea creatures along the ocean bottom. That he would give her his undivided attention in this drenched playground has been my daughter’s wish all week. And suddenly I find myself wishing that he would swim underwater with her just a little longer.  

Because I’m going to need more than 10 seconds to get to that towel.

After the Storm.

There’s a bead of sweat sneaking down the small of my back, breaking loose from its birthplace between my shoulder blades. The others are threatening to give chase at any moment, which means that I am mere minutes away from my dewy glow turning into a hot, wet mess. 

But I am stuck here for another 15. By then my beady little friends will have long since made their escape, leaving a moist trail down the back of my shirt. And sitting 10 steps away from an Olympic-sized pool is not doing anything to cool my slow boil. 

July’s onset means that temperatures and tempers reach a fevered pitch. Hot enough to tempt the devil – contrary to public opinion he has not gone down to Georgia; he spends his summers right here – the desert sears at the touch. Refreshing pools become warm baths and the eyes of electricians everywhere gleam as air conditioners are pushed beyond their limits. Too hot to go outside and too bored to stay in, children and teenagers stop celebrating summer vacation and join their parents in a silent countdown until school is back in session.

And then come the storms.

The lazy, heavy heat gives way to blue-gray clouds that roll across the sky like wild stallions on a dusty plain. Thunder’s deep bass booms and white flashes pierce the dark sky. Trees whip their branches in a frenzied ritual until the clouds relent and release their assault. In the aftermath the desert comes to life, vibrant pink, yellow and purple splashed against rich hues of green, red and brown.  

A second bead races down my back disappearing into my waistline and I realize that, for the first time, I don’t want the storms to wash away the summer heat because each day draws us closer to the end of this reprieve we have enjoyed. It gave us the chance to step back and slow down. To take stock of where we had come from, what we had been through and where we are headed. Spring melted into summer and with each day we grew healthier, happier.

We had focused on surviving the storm – until the clouds lifted and we were ready to focus on the business of living again.    

A Chance of Showers.

“Do I look like something the cat might have dragged in?”

The large and rather unfriendly looking woman standing behind the security desk is not amused. Maybe she hasn’t had her morning coffee. Looking down at the dirty mug I decide that maybe she hasn’t had enough morning coffee.

I am already five minutes late. And now I am wet. Not a little wet. A lot wet. Like winning-coach-at-a-bowl-game-after-giddy-grown-men-dump-a-keg-of-sticky-neon-performance-drink-all-over-him wet. 

My exceptional blowout is plastered in thick wavy rivulets to my head, my perfectly pressed pant suit is wilting, my peach silk shirt is painted on to my chest, and the toes peeping out of my pumps make a repulsive sucking sound when I move. For a brief – very brief – moment I consider the possibility that this unlovely woman might have the secret map to a hairdryer. Except that I am pretty sure there might be a strong possibility she has never actually seen a hairdryer.

Maybe she knows the cab driver that just dropped me off – the one that couldn’t find the building of one of the highest employers in this lovely All-American town and then kept his surly rear firmly planted in the driver’s seat while I unloaded my bags.

In the pouring rain.

In the 60 seconds it took to get out of the car, unload my bags and sprint in 3.5-inch stilettos through the revolving door I went from poised professional to something fished out of the Indian Ocean off a capsized ferry. After dislodging my roller bag from the revolving door, I had managed to lurch my way across the slick foyer without complete failure.

And now Ms. Surly Pants is raising an eyebrow. An eyebrow that I can’t stop staring at because it has never spent time with an aesthetician and if she raises it any higher I am going to squash it right back down to where it belongs. And because this five-foot-one-inch mess has 10 senior executives waiting for her upstairs. 

And because, damn it, she had awesome hair five minutes ago.

If I gave any credence to fate – don’t bother campaigning because I’m an undecided and no amount of prodding is going to move me off the fence in either direction – I would suspect that this charming town doesn’t want me. Maybe it knows that I come with baggage, literal and figurative. That this is a test of who I am and if I am ready to venture past the front gate.

It started when I was selected by airport security for both a peek and a pat. (I hope they enjoyed that little jaunt under the hood, because at least one of us should have a good time.) Then when I landed on the other side in this picturesque slice of Americana, I managed to lose myself in the stairwells trying to find the curb. And now she is telling me that there is no restroom in which I can attempt to recover from the storm that just spun me through the door until I arrive on the 21^st floor. Where executives are waiting to see if I have the right stuff.

I do. They are just going to have to get out a mop to find it. 

Fishing for Signs of Life.

I have never wanted a pool boy as much as I do at this very moment. 

That’s right, I said it. So let’s just spend a second or two indulging this little fantasy, shall we? Hours spent lounging poolside in a bikini that you have worked all winter long to squeeze into. Frothy liquid concoction, high-powered sunblock and summer’s must-read release on the side table. A not-too-perfect man to apply lotion to those hard-to-reach spots.

Right.

So, you can keep that version because I want a pool boy so that he can actually tend the pool. Like right now. Because I am more than a little concerned that if I fall in I might accidentally come in contact with it. And by it I mean the swollen lizard that is frozen in a grotesque pirouette at the bottom.

Did it not see the mouse? What about the other mouse? The tarantula that was sent flying over the wall? (Don’t judge me – it was early so the odds are slim that anyone was walking down the sidewalk. And for those of you keeping count I can now say that I have, in fact, used the shovel.)

It’s not that I am squeamish. I’m not. Any scorpion, cockroach, millipede or centipede that might consider crawling in usually ends up on the wrong end of my Swiffer, and my husband was willing to bet on me if “Survivor” was ever gutsy enough to drop contestants at one of the poles. It’s just that there is no one on whom to foist the task of recovering this slimy little creature.

Something inconvenient, expensive or beyond either my physical or technical capabilities has continually interrupted the already disrupted cadence of our lives. Like the broken garage door opener that left us stranded outside. Or the fire alarm hard wired into the ceiling and repeatedly short circuiting, well out of reach even from ladder’s highest step. The burnt out TV light bulb was an unpleasant drama that stretched for weeks. Plugged toilets, jammed garbage disposals, replacement refrigerator filters and car problems. Small creatures at the bottom of the pool.

When the sun sinks and the garage doors open on our street, it reminds me of a secret society meeting. The rolling wheels of trash cans a signal that a meeting has been called and garden sheers, leaf blowers and oil pans are the instruments of formality. They search for hammers before disappearing back into their houses to hang pictures that have waited too long to be hung. They return to carry trash bags to the curb and I wonder how many small creatures are inside. I notice the recycled boxes of replacement filters, new appliances and furniture “some assembly required.” I see their irritation and I hear the invisible, frustrated and weary voices that sent them out here.

They think they know frustration and weariness. But they are not standing here angrily fishing for signs of life.  

Under Pressure.

Freddy Mercury has had my ear all week. If a guy is going to sing to me, I’d rather he not be in a wickedly flared jumpsuit open to his navel and erupting in chest hair. But Freddy it is and Freddy it has been all week. And he hasn’t even mixed up the play list. 

Under Pressure, indeed.

As a kid, I loved the movie “Raise the Titanic.” I actually thought it was true, a bubble my father waited a little while to burst. I wanted to see the ship that had sunk so far and was raised again, irrevocably damaged but strong enough to complete its original journey. The tension as the submersibles slowly descended miles into the dark, some not surviving the water’s insurmountable pressure. I have been enthralled by the unsinkable ship ever since.

My son is reading a storybook that takes place on the Titanic. I popped the bubble right away when he asked if we could go and see it. His response was immediate and matter of fact. “Why don’t they go and get it?” I explained things like water pressure, broken hulls and disintegration. “Why can’t someone fix it?”

Because something that has sunk that far and suffered that much damage can’t be brought back.

But what if it could? My recognition of water’s power – that it could be beautiful and terrifying, soothing and vengeful – began with that movie. But what riveted me was the idea that there was still hope. That this beautiful, impenetrable and defiant vessel could emerge from her watery grave.

We live rapid-fire lives, with careers that demand no less than 60-hour work weeks enabled by immediate and constant access we both provide and demand. To expose our children to a future with no limits, we overwhelm them with activities and expectations. We are pushed and pulled by families, personal passions, careers and bills. We are a pressure-hungry, pressure-driven species.

The intensity of before seems so trivial now that I am viewing it through the intensity of after.

Loss crushed us beneath its weight and then returned like waves that randomly crash on a reef before settling into a rhythmic ebb and flow. It’s as though I have been existing under water, my surroundings muffled and emotional pressure crippling me. Breaking the surface, I float until life returns in spades.  

I am still riveted by the hope that something so irrevocably damaged can emerge from the depths, wearing her wounds with pride as she continues to move forward. I am driven because I know it is possible.