A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I kept journals. During my senior year in high school and throughout college, and again for two years in my early 30s after my father died, I filled more than 20 blank books with the minute details of my inner and outer lives.
A few months ago, I found them in a box in my basement. After reading a few entries, I quickly realized I wasn’t ready to revisit my past. I closed the box, put it back on the shelf and returned to my daily routine.
“Not another waterfall!” Sophie moaned when I announced our sightseeing plans for the day. A mere three days into our Iceland vacation, we had already marveled at more waterfalls than one could reasonably expect to marvel at in a lifetime. They were all so beautiful and so different – it was impossible to become immune to them. Unless your name is Sophie. While the waterfalls didn’t melt her heart, she often found the landscapes surrounding them full of surprises and hard to resist.
For Part I of our Moroccan adventures in Rabat, Fez and Volubilis, click here.
The Sahara awaited us. We climbed into our 4×4 vehicles and drove to our campsite near the frontier town of Merzouga. Soon after we left the paved road, we had our first encounter with the legendary landscape. It was not what I expected, however. We had entered the rocky desert (the “reg”). After another 45 minutes of driving, we finally found ourselves in the sandy desert (the “erg”) of the movies and guidebooks. The wind started to pick up as we spotted the magical dunes in the distance.
Left the kids behind. Left the husband behind. Left the dog behind. And hopped on a plane with my mother to discover the wonders of Morocco. A two-week adventure. A dream come true.
The “Romeo and Juliet” script was sitting on the dining room table, looking forlorn and abandoned. It was 11:30 am. A mere three hours earlier, I had assured Sophie on the way to the bus stop that I had put it in her backpack.
Continue reading Momposter Syndrome (or Wherefore Art Thou, Romeo & Juliet?)
“Damn, she’s tall!” I marveled as Sophie stood beside her friends the other day. She towered over her 10-year old peers by several inches and although her rapidly increasing height wasn’t news to me, it was still startling to see the contrast.
The sound of men gamely cheering as their team scores a soccer goal. The sound of two girls kicking their own ball as they emulate their dads playing on the field. The sound of large paper target faces crinkling in the breeze as they’re placed on their stands in preparation for a morning of archery. The sound of children yelling in the playground as they swing and climb.
Chloe recently opened my eyes to a hard truth. She’s been on a “healthy eating” kick for a few months and it’s serious enough that she now has a dedicated space in the pantry for her rolled oats, quinoa, wheat pasta, buckwheat flour, rice noodles, peanuts (for homemade peanut butter), slivered almonds, a spiralizer to make zucchini pasta…and the list goes on.
As she’s ventured deeper into her food experimentation, I’ve struggled with contradictory feelings. On the one hand, I’m proud of her self-sufficiency. On the other hand, I feel inadequate because, let’s face it, she still has a few more years under our roof and shouldn’t I be the one to prepare these nutritious meals for her?
As I continue to navigate the writing life, I treasure the freedom and flexibility that comes with being my own boss and setting my own schedule. And after all of these years, I’m finally doing work I genuinely love.
“I can’t wait to move out,” remarked Chloe a couple of weeks ago. She had just walked in the door after school and we were both standing by the kitchen sink having a conversation – about what, I don’t recall.
